


Forever is our Today

by happydaygirl



Category: The Musketeers (2014), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: M/M, Old Guard AU, Period Typical Homophobia, Torture, Violence, non permanent deaths, period typical racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 28,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happydaygirl/pseuds/happydaygirl
Summary: Athos leads a group of immortal warriors through the centuries, fighting the good fight. When another immortal is discovered among them, the team is thrust into a series of events that will test them all to the limit.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay/Porthos du Vallon
Comments: 97
Kudos: 94





	1. Chapter 1

Athos was tired. No, he was more than tired at this precise moment in time. He was annoyed- he was annoyed at being stabbed, of being bludgeoned, of being beaten, of being wantonly shot at. He was annoyed at finding himself on the wrong side of what he thought was a good deal, a good job. Above all, though, he was annoyed at being thrust back into existence like being hurtled through time- he was tired of it. He was too old for this shit, and so were the others.

He groaned as quietly as he could as he felt his body pushing out the numerous musket balls that had embedded in his bones, splitting muscle and tearing cartilage.

He lay still as his body papered over the gashes and slash marks in his skin, the blood congealing and falling to the dusty forest floor.

He smelt fire, and the heavy scent of musky earth, of autumn, cloying in his nose as he slowly moved his head on the dirt, his neck muscles fixing themselves as they knitted the skin back together.

Porthos was awake, his bright eyes only on Aramis, who was still dead- he would wake soon enough, and then the shit-show would begin. They finally caught each other's eyes; Athos could see the barely suppressed panic as Aramis still didn't stir.

Porthos knew better than to reach for his lover, to keep up the appearance of death as the group of thieves and mercenaries gathered toward the fire, confident their job was done.

Another small gasp beside him, almost impossible to make out unless you had been fine-tuned over millennia to hear the small intake of life as it returned to the body; Marsac's eyes fluttered open, his broken hands, mending quickly, reaching for his weapon already.

Their eyes met, a silent understanding between them- they both looked back as Aramis finally took in a breath, his bloodshot eyes turning from a deathly cloudiness to bright and alive.

The relief in Porthos' face was touching as the two men looked across to each other, Aramis giving him a small smile as his body worked to repel the wounds and musket balls in his body. A ball fell from Aramis' mouth as he spat it onto the ground with a small groan.

A few seconds passed, in which no one paid them any heed- why would they, after all? The men ahead of them thought their job was done. How wrong they were.

Athos got up first, steely eyes fixed on the men as he rose to his feet, his sword already balanced perfectly in his palm.

The others followed, grasping their weapons with vigour anew.

What followed next could only be described as a bloodbath. Athos felt truly alive during these moments, as if shedding blood and tossing away bodies was the only thing that kept him going now. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was vengeance. They had come here thinking they were saving a vast fortune, the entire resources of a poor village that was resettling due to an imminent flood.

There was no money. Athos knew that now- the ambush had been swift, steady. They barely had time to raise their weapons before they had been peppered with musket-balls, had been run through with swords and daggers and knives.

He looked across to Porthos and Aramis- the two worked in sync, ducking and diving, delivering each other a man to dispatch. It was like a dance, one that had been played and perfected throughout their years together. It was a good system, and it suited them.

Marsac, however, had a different system entirely- as Athos deftly kicked a body away from him he turned as the younger man yelled out in anger, his own blade wildly slashing. Efficient, but it lacked finesse. As if that mattered any more... Athos thought as he grappled with a screaming man, almost taking them both to the floor. _He was just so tired..._

Soon enough all but one man had been dispatched- he struggled backwards, his face pale and eyes wide as he saw what once had been dead men advance, eyes like fury. Marsac fired a warning shot at him- the tree next to the man exploded, showering him with splintered wood. Throwing his weapon to the ground he fled, not casting a look back.

'You should have just shot him!' Porthos admonished the other man, shaking his head. 'Do you think we should have got him?' He asked as they watched him run. flexing his blood-flecked hand as more and more feeling entered his blood stream.

He reached for Aramis now, his bloodstained fingers seeking his hand where he squeezed gently, grateful for the pulse beating under his fingers. Aramis smiled and stepped back a pace so they were stood together, and dropped his head onto Porthos' shoulder, closing his eyes briefly as Porthos pressed a tender, yet urgent, kiss to the side of his head.

'He can tell the others what happened here, as a warning.' Marsac shrugged, before turning to Athos, who was staring ahead, at the man's retreating back. They should have got him- now they could tell others about what happened here. He could tell others about them.

'Athos?' Aramis said, voice quizzical. 'Shall I get him?'

'He's disappeared into the forest by now.' Athos said tersely, fighting back the uneasy feeling in his chest. He had been injured, he had seen the blood peppering the man's neck; he probably wouldn't live out the night.

He sighed angrily as he stooped and picked up his gun, the metal hot beneath his fingers. 'Let's go.' he said. Two syllables, harsh against the relative calm of the scene.

He walked off without waiting for an answer, his muscles still tight as his body worked to heal. It was taking longer and longer each time now. It worried him, but not enough to voice his concerns.

'Where are we going?' Porthos asked, reaching forwards and taking the gun from Athos. It was from the wrong century entirely and would need to be disposed of.

'Paris.'

'Paris?'Aramis echoed, frowning. 'Why?'

'I just have a feeling about Paris- we need to lay low now we let one get away-' Marsac withered a little under Athos' intense glare.

'Paris, the city of romance!' Aramis grinned, nudging Porthos' shoulder. 'You'll fit in right away there!'

Porthos smiled at the gentle tease, shaking his head as Aramis grinned, his face shining in the early evening light in the way Porthos had always loved., despite the blood on his cheeks and down his neck. They laced their hands together as they walked, periodically squeezing as if to make sure the other was still at their side.

'It should take a week to walk there, unless we can come upon some horses along the way.' Athos told them.

'A week?' Aramis pretended to look shocked. 'My poor feet...'

'I'll go and look for some horses tomorrow.' Porthos assured him, grinning as Aramis chuckled at his side.

'We'll walk for a few hours and then camp, it'll be too dark to walk after nightfall.' Athos muttered. The men walked in silence, the forest swallowing them up entirely as they melted into the environment, silent as ghosts in the scant evening light...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence and major character deaths...one permanent, one not so permanent...

d’Artagnan pulled a tired, gloved hand down his wet face and peered up at the sky as the rain thrashed down onto the ground, covering everything in its path. They were on the outskirts of Paris, and had ridden on well into the night in their haste to get to the city by dawn.

‘We should find somewhere to shelter for the night!’ He called down from atop his horse to his father, who had dismounted his horse to walk alongside it, using the animal as a shield against the driving wind. ‘We’ll drown if we don’t!’ He added with a wry smile.

His father snorted, shaking his head ruefully. ‘If we press on we will make it in record time!’ He replied, shaking his head like a dog, water flicking everywhere as it came off his hood.

‘We won’t look very good before the King if we are both dying of chill!’ D’Artagnan pointed out, shivering.

His father considered, sniffling himself. ‘I really could do with a bowl of thick stew..’ he muttered to himself. They looked up as they heard the sound of wood banging against stone- the sign for an inn, he could see. The black dog.

‘Come on lad,’ he smiled, shuddering as he started walking with vigour. ‘Let’s hope they have room!’

‘And enough stew!’ D’Artagnan smiled, grinning as his father shot him a look as they rode on.

* * *

After a hearty meal of rabbit stew and a heel of crusty bread, they had retired for the night. d’Artagnan, however, found that he could not sleep. He tossed and turned on his thin bed, and lamented his even thinner pillow. He wondered if someone had actually stolen the feathers; swinging his long legs off the bed he looked out of the window, at the rain still hammering down onto the stony courtyard beyond his room.

He stood and stretched, sighing against the lack of sleep. He walked over to the window and put his hands on the sill, looking out at the deserted area. He frowned as he saw a shadowed figure suddenly dart into the courtyard, making his way to the stables.

He watched as the man opened the wooden door and stepped inside, where d’Artagnan could now hear him rootling about, searching.

A feeling of injustice filled his veins- the innkeeper, as much as he had seen of him, was a good man, generous with his time as well as his hospitality. He didn’t deserve this.

Pushing himself away from the window he turned in order to grab his shoes and cloak- he startled as he walked straight into another shadowed figure standing behind him.

‘I thought you might like a nightcap- I heard you tossing and turning from my room.’ His father spoke into the silence, bottle in hand.

‘Don’t do that!’ d’Artagnan muttered, clutching his chest with a rueful shake of his head. ‘I think there’s a thief in the stables. I’m going to take a look…’

‘d’Artagnan…’ his father warned, yet he didn’t try to stop his son, instead watching as he gathered his boots and pulled them on. He had taught his son from a young age to always think of others, and felt nothing but pride as he watched as he shouldered his cloak. ‘Be careful!’ He called instead, before turning and walking to the window himself, peering nervously down as he waited for his son to appear.

* * *

The mud squelched under d’Artagnan’s boots as he made his way through to the cobbled courtyard- he had no weapon, save for the large rock he had scooped up; he hoped the man ahead was also unarmed.

That hope died in the air as he stepped into the shelter of the stable and saw the large blade in the thief’s hand. He was rifling through some drawers, a full bag already slung over his shoulder.

‘You shouldn’t be here!’ He yelled against the rain outside.

The man startled, yet seemed prepared for such an interruption- he threw himself forwards, blade arching in the air.

d’Artagnan barely had time to launch himself backwards to avoid the knife- seconds later and the man was on him, bringing him forwards into the courtyard and down to the ground as he used his weight to knock d’Artagnan to the floor, punching him in the face as he did so.

The two men grappled in the mud- the man grunted out in pain as d’Artagnan landed a blow to his jaw, before the Gascon had to use both hand to stop the man stabbing him as he drew his arm backwards to strike once more.

d’Artagnan yelled out as he kicked the man in the stomach, sending him to the side a few inches; enough time for the younger man to scrabble upright, clutching his face and his split lip, blood dribbling down his chin.

With a garbled cry the man darted forwards- d’Artagnan moved to one side, yet the man was ready- he fisted the blade now, eyes glinting as he moved in for the final move.

‘NO!’ d’Artagnan heard a cry from somewhere behind him, before he was grasped by the shoulder and flung aside, just as the blade came down, embedding in the new arrival’s abdomen.

‘No!’ d’Artagnan cried as the thief cruelly ripped the blade out- his father clutched at the wound, his face ashen white even in the darkness.

D’Artganan gave the thief no second thought as he rushed forwards to catch his father; he clasped his body close, helping him to the sodden ground as his legs finally gave way.

‘No, no…papa…’ he sobbed, tears mixing in with the rain that fell on his father’s face, now taut with pain. ‘Why did you come out?’ He cried, pulling him close across his lap.

‘You w-were…l-losing…’ his father replied, a bubble of blood rising and bursting at the corner of his mouth as he attempted a chuckle.

‘I was doing fine…’ d’Artagnan snorted wetly, shaking his head. He rocked his father back and forth, the blood from his stomach pooling onto his own hands as his father struggled to take in his next breath.

‘No, no…stay with me…don’t leave me alone….’ He whispered, sobs racking his body. ‘I need you…’ he added, squeezing his eyes shut as tears stung his eyes.

‘I-I’ll always be-be….here…’ his father said, voice barely more than a whisper, before he lifted a hand and placed it against his son’s chest, above his heart. ‘In h-here…’

‘No, no…’ d’Artagnan shook his head as his father let his hand fall, heavy now, onto his own chest. ‘Help!’ He called into the night, conscious that no one had even come out to check what all the commotion was about. ‘Someone help us!’

He looked back down as his father coughed painfully, his face now impossibly pale. ‘Stay with me papa…’ he whispered, bringing his head down so their foreheads touched. ‘Don’t leave me here…’

Moving his head back up, d’Artagnan sucked in a ragged breath as he watched his father’s features finally settle, before his eyes, still boring into his son’s, stopped moving completely.

Sobbing, d’Artagnan drew his father’s body upwards, rocking him back and forth. He couldn’t believe it. He was gone.

Anger trickled in to join the grief. He looked up, at the direction that the thief had gone. Maybe he could still catch him. He had to pay for what he had done.

Gently dropping his father back to the muddy ground he scrambled up, picking up the large rock as he did so. Wiping bloodied hands on his trousers he took off at a run, eyes peeled for the thief.

He found him running through a wooded path, obviously thinking no one would be coming after him- running like the hounds of hell itself were snapping at his heels d’Artagnan ran, arms pumping and chest heaving with exertion, until he had caught up- with a yell of anger that surprised even him, he threw himself forwards, grasping the man around the waist and using his body weight to pull him to the ground.

The man gasped out in surprise as his face his mud- he kicked out at the younger man, in the head, in the shoulder. d’Artagnan took all the blows, hardly feeling it as his adrenaline filled every nerve fibre. He scrabbled up the man’s body, straddling him with the rock raised high above his head, eyes alight with fury.

Just as he brought it down the man punched him in the stomach, throwing him back, winded. It gave the man enough time to reach down for his blade- before d’Artagnan could do anything more, the thief arced the knife in a large semicircle, cutting the Gascon’s throat.

Reeling backwards, clutching his torn throat, the man used the time to kick himself onwards, where he scrabbled up and, without a backwards glance, ran as fast as he could into the darkness.

Lurching upwards, d’Artagnan struggled to get up- his boots held no purchase in the mud. He grasped as his throat, felt blood pour down his hands and down his arms, hot and thick.

He gabbled out a breath, sinking down onto his side, eyes wide as he saw he was totally alone. He tried calling out, for help, for his father, yet no words came. He moved onto his back, rain falling onto his face as the blood pooled on the ground.

He felt strangely calm as death came to him. He felt warm, safe. He would see his father again.

When death finally came he welcomed it, to be out of this pain at last…

No one was more surprised than he was when life hurtled back into his body ten minutes later, pulling him back into the mortal realm with a disorienting thud.

* * *

Sheltering under a canopy of stretched boiled leather, four men started awake from their dreams, echoes and scraps of someone else’s memory filling their minds like acid.

‘What…?’ Aramis gasped out, pushing a heel of his hand into his eyes as Porthos draped an arm over his leg comfortingly.

‘No..no…’ Athos growled from opposite them, panic filling his chest as he processed what he had just seen. ‘Not another one…’

‘A young man…’ Porthos affirmed, reaching into his bag and pulling out his sketchbook, already working furiously at the paper. ‘He was at an inn…the Black Dog I think…’

‘Brown hair.’ Aramis added, shaking slightly as he thought back to what he had seen. ‘Brown leather coat of some kind…’

‘I saw another man with him.’ Marsac said, unstoppering a bottle and taking a draught of wine. ‘He held him as he died…’

‘He’s going to be frightened, confused…’ Aramis muttered, eyes turning to Athos. ‘We need to find him.’

‘What? No we need to lay low- we’ve already possibly been compromised, and-‘ 

‘And whose fault was that?’ Porthos growled in response to Marsac’s words, not taking his eyes off his work as he drew.

‘He’s going to be scared, Marsac. Confused- he’s going to feel like he’s alone in the world unless we find him.’ Aramis said, voice not inviting a reply. ‘Surely you still remember what it felt like, the first time?’

Shaking his head, Marsac took another drink, looking now to Athos, who had his head in his hands, a worried look on his own face.

‘It’s been 200 years…’ he said, more to himself than the others. ‘Why now?’

‘Everything happens for a reason, Athos.’ Aramis smiled over at him. ‘He needs our help.’

Athos looked over at him, considering as he calmed himself down. Finally he stood up, throwing his things into his bag.

‘The inn isn’t far,’ Marsac muttered, ‘half a days ride from here, I’ve been there before.’

‘I’ll go and get him.’ Athos nodded, finally shouldering his bag. ‘Go to the safe house near the city, hopefully it’s not been compromised.’

He looked down as Porthos ripped the page from his sketchbook and handed it to him. ‘Jesus, he’s just a child…’ he muttered, before scrunching the paper in his hand and pocketing it.

Without another word he walked into the night- the others watched his retreating back, before he was swallowed entirely by the darkness of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed- this is actually the second version of this chapter I wrote, owing to the fact my laptop crashed and somehow I lost the whole, completed document...
> 
> So I hope you enjoy, it was definitely a labour of love!
> 
> Just to let you know, updates most probably will not be daily from now on- but I am just so excited for this story, so who knows?!
> 
> Please leave a comment, I really appreciate them and they really do help my writing!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a long chapter here, I just didn’t know when to stop!

The courtyard of the Black Dog was clamouring with people when d’Artagnan slowly made his way back through the woods in the watery morning light, confused and scared and grief stricken. Women were clutching their children close to their skirts, shielding them from the scene near the stables. Men look on, shocked, at the carnage.

Blood, thick and dark now, had congealed in pools over the cobblestones, mixing with the mud and remnants of the storm from the night before.

d’Artagnan, his legs shaking so much he had to lean on a low wall to stop himself from falling over, stared ahead, at the figure covered by a blanket on the ground.

He touched his neck, at the smooth skin. He didn’t understand- he had felt the life ebbing from him, his lifeblood seeping through his fingers. He had died. He had been gone. So how was he still standing?

He looked up to the heavens, as if the Lord himself would be staring down, ready to offer instructions of some sort.

He looked down as nothing came. The lack of Devine orders made him feel sick- why had he been spared? Looking across to where his slain father lay, a sudden thought occurred to him- ‘wake up….’ He whispered to himself, willing his father to rise also. Perhaps they had both been spared?

Several weighted minutes passed. ‘Come on, come on…’ he pleaded, feeling the prickly sting of tears in the corner of his eyes as more people clamour around his father, who was still lying there, cold on the cobbles. ‘Please…’ he added, desperation making his voice falter.

He leant back into the wall, wiping his eyes with a balled fist as he came to the realisation that only he had been spared.

Looking around, he spotted a man standing by a tree, the reigns of his horse in his hands. He seemed to be staring at him. D’Artagnan swallowed hard as he realised a woman standing with a group of villagers was pointing at him, mouthing some words he couldn’t understand due to the distance between them.

He suddenly felt very unsafe- he moved away from the wall and walked down the dirt road towards the main square, now uncomfortably aware that others were now talking loudly about him; he recognised one as the landlord, and others as patrons he and his father had eaten with the night before.

He didn’t want to speak to them, to answer any questions- he didn’t have any answers himself. He forced himself to breathe steady, to calm down. He clenched and released his hands, adrenaline fizzing in his fingers- a glint of silver caught his eyes as he walked. A knife, dropped and forgotten- he picked it up and stuffed it in his pocket, a muscle jumping painfully in his jaw as he walked.

He tensed as he heard the steady noise of hooves from behind him- he didn’t look back, but assumed it was the man from beside the tree he had just seen. He moved to the side of the road to allow him to pass, yet he didn’t.

Finally, after a few more minutes of being followed he slowed to a complete stop, glancing up at the stranger with barely contained hostility. ‘Can I help you?’ He muttered, eyes narrowed.

The man dismounted quickly, hand delving into his pocket as he rounded his horse to come to stand opposite d’Artagnan- before he could even raise his hands to defend himself the stranger pulled his hand out and revealed the flash of a sheathed dagger; twisting the blade he raised his hand and stuck d’Artagnan hard on the side of the head with the handle.

Catching the young man as he crumpled forwards into his chest, Athos looked up and down the dirt road; satisfied no one had seen them he grunted as he hitched the man up and onto his shoulder. He staggered to his horse, clicking his teeth to command Roger to kneel down- positioning the man in front of him, he too climbed upon his horse and commanded Roger to stand. The sooner they got out of here the better.

* * *

It was until over half an hour later, just as they were crossing a large, sodden field about thirty miles from the city, that the young man stirred- Athos peered down as he felt the man move against his chest, leaning forwards and grasping the side of the horse as he adjusted to the fact he was on a rapidly moving animal.

He also felt the man tense, as if thinking. He hoped he wasn’t going to do what he thought he was going to do…

Suddenly the man moved forward and, in one fluid movement, threw his head back, catching Athos in the nose and almost sending him off the horse entirely. Athos’ hands flew to his nose, giving the man enough time to move sideways and fall from the horse, leaving Athos to roll his eyes as he watched him somersault in the dirt, grunting in pain.

‘For pity’s sake…’ he muttered as he stopped Roger- he looked back to see the younger man running as fast as he could in the opposite direction as if a pack of dogs were snapping at his heels. ‘What’s wrong with just a nice chat…’ he added, sighing as he dismounted and reached into his inner coat pocket. He palmed the small knife, steeling himself as he began jogging forwards so he could aim better.

Finally in range, he stopped, drew his arm back and threw the knife as hard as he could- a mangled cry and a sudden thud told him he had met his mark.

Athos turned back and, once he had collected Roger, he made the slow walk forwards until he was level with the clearly dead young man, the knife buried deep between his shoulder blades, blood pooling on his back.

He sighed and massaged his nose, wincing at the cracking nose as the bone worked itself back into the right position. ‘Why does it always take so long the first few times…’ he muttered tersely as he looked down at the innate body. Suddenly the man gasped and coughed as life entered him once more- Athos squatted down and wrenched the knife from his back as the man rolled over, arms trying to reach the rapidly closing wound.

Athos stood back as he staggered upright, a shocked look on his face as he finally turned to him. ‘You stabbed me!’ He stated, voice hard yet confused at the same time.

‘That I did.’ Athos nodded, before nodding across to Roger. ‘I need you to get back on the horse.’

‘What’s going on…’ d’Artagnan muttered, eyes wide as he shook his head, panic rushing over him like a waterfall. ‘This isn’t real…this can’t be real…’

‘Look, we’ll have a nice long chat about this later, but the main point is that you can’t die, so if you can ju-‘ Athos was cut off as d’Artagnan suddenly withdrew a knife from his pocket and launched at him, stabbing him in the upper chest up to the hilt. He yelled out in pain as d’Artagnan stepped back, seemingly shocked at what he had done.

He cast the younger man a long-suffering look as he grasped the handle and wrenched the knife out, hissing in pain. ‘I would really appreciate it-‘ he muttered as he stowed the bloodied knife in his coat, ‘-if you didn’t do that again…’

‘What the hell are you?’ d’Artagnan whispered, nausea rising in his throat. He swallowed hard, putting a hand to his mouth as his stomach roiled.

‘I told you- I’m the same as you.’

‘W-what?’ D’Artagnan muttered, mind whirring. ‘You can’t die either?’

‘No.’

‘How come? Why don’t you die?’

‘My name is Athos. I lead a group of other immortals. An army, I suppose. We were all shown visions of you- you belong with us. A fighter, a solider.’ Athos shrugged, a twinge of pain sparking from the knife wound. ‘You want some answers?’ He asked, before motioning Roger once more. ‘Get on the horse.’

d’Artagnan watched as Athos mounted, bringing the horse round and holding out a hand. They stared at each other for a few moments, as if working out each other’s intentions. After a few weighted seconds d’Artagnan swallowed hard and grasped the proffered hand.

Once he was settled Athos kicked Roger on, the two men sitting in a strained silence as they moved through the field and into the forest.

* * *

‘Why are we getting a cart?’ d’Artagnan asked over the heads of a throng of villagers, watching as Athos handed a handful of Livre to a stout man, who pointed over to a large, roofed cart and a man in a hat that stood alongside.

‘I’m tired. My horse is tired. I need supplies.’ Athos answered drily. ‘Any other questions?’

‘I thought you said we needed-‘

‘Look, I don’t need you to worry over this. It’s not your problem- just sit in it and shut up, alright?’ He nodded to the cart. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes.’

‘You’re not my father!’ d’Artagnan hissed, anger dancing behind his eyes.

Athos ignored the jibe and walked off, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose as he turned the corner. Why did this new one have to be so annoying?

He busied himself with finding supplies and returned to find Pierre, his old friend and frequent driver when he was around these parts, already sitting up at the cart, and the younger man stood alongside, arms crossed.

‘Here.’ Athos muttered, flinging a fresh change of clothes at him, before unstoppering a bottle of wine and drinking straight from the bottle. ‘You can’t walk around with blood on your shirt. People will talk.’

Scowling, d’Artagnan moved to the other side of the cart to change, reappearing to find Athos in the cart. ‘We won’t get there until next week if you don’t hurry up.’ He called from inside.

Scoffing, d’Artagnan got in, and no sooner had he sat down Athos tapped the side to signal to the driver to move off.

d’Artagnan eyed the bag next to Athos; it glinted in the sunlight. ‘Weapons?’

‘How astute.’ Athos nodded, eyes out of the window as he watched the village meld into countryside as they made their way to the outskirts of Paris. ‘Your power of perception is second to none.’

‘So…’ d’Artagnan leant back and felt his neck again, the same panic and confusion begin to settle over him like a cloud. ‘Why me?’

‘Why any of us?’ Athos replied, finally turning to look at him. ‘We’ve asked ourselves the same questions over the years. We just don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’ d’Artagnan stared at him. ‘You said you had answers!’ He added hotly.

‘I didn’t say you’d like them, lad.’

‘It’s God.’ d’Artagnan nodded, looking up. ‘It has to be. He has a plan for me, I know it.’

‘Whatever has done this, it’s definitely not your God.’ Athos scoffed, shaking his head. ‘Sorry.’

‘It has to be!’ d’Artagnan frowned as he comprehended the words. ‘What do you mean, your God? He’s your God too.’

‘Oh no, not mine. Mine is from a time before yours.’ Athos shrugged, taking another swing of wine. ‘You know, there was a time that I was worshipped as a God…’

d’Artagnan could do no more than just sit back, nonplussed.

Athos’ words did nothing to quell his rising panic. He could feel his throat closing as he struggled to breathe.

‘You should go to sleep. We’ll get to Paris in the next two hours.’ Athos said, before settling down against the side of the cart, closing his eyes immediately.

* * *

Of all the things he could have imagined to wake up to, being tied fast against the side of a cart was not one of them. Athos sighed as he opened his eyes, looking up at d’Artagnan; he had pilfered a gun from his weapons bag and was currently pointing it at Pierre through the small widow, who looked back nervously.

‘What are you doing, lad?’ He spoke into the silence, trying his hardest not to sound annoyed.

‘Stop the cart. I’m getting off.’

‘Look, why don’t we just talk-’

‘You’re not taking me to Paris. I don’t want to go- I have things to do, I can’t go with you.’

‘Put the gun down, Pierre hasn’t done anything wrong…’

‘I said stop!’ D’Artagnan’s eyes widened as the cart inexplicably sped up. ‘Stop the cart.’

‘He won’t shoot you, Pierre.’ Athos assured him, before pulling out his gun. ‘I will.’ He uttered a command in a language d’Artagnan didn’t understand before a shot ran out and Pierre slumped, the horse now barrelling out of control.

‘Jesus…’ d’Artagnan gasped, before abandoning his gun and launching himself forwards to grasp the reigns from Pierre and wrest control back from the frightened horse.

The cart came to a stop. Athos sighed as he used yet another hidden knife to cut his binds. He kicked the door open and walked onto a dirt road, coming behind d’Artagnan as he too disembarked.‘Now you’ve stopped playing around, perhaps we can crack on, now-‘ his eyes widened as d’Artagnan yelled out and punched him in the face.

He smiled sardonically as he felt blood dribble down his chin. His smile stayed fixed to his face as d’Artagnan again launched at him, shouting angrily. Blocking the shot Athos stepped back, changing his stance as the younger man jabbed, again and again, not caring what he hit.

Suddenly he threw himself at him and pulled him sideways, away from the cart.

Darting in the opposite direction, d’Artagnan delved into the weapons bag and pulled out a rapier.

‘What, no fair fight?’ Athos scolded, shaking his head.

Enraged, d’Artagnan scoffed and pulled out another rapier and threw it across to to Athos. He realised his mistake instantly as Athos wielded it like a profession on his palms, like it was an extra appendage.

‘You want to play with the big boys, that’s fine…’ he muttered, rolling his shoulder and moving into a fighter stance. ‘Give me your best go.’

d’Artagnan needed no encouragement- Athos was quite impressed by his footwork, yet his hand eye coordination needed urgent work.

One or twice he had to step back as the younger man lurched forwards with a yell, his move highly illegal in every variant of the rules of combat.

Smiling to himself at the worthy challenge, Athos chanced some questionable moves of his own- he stepped forward and, after successfully parrying a blow, punched d’Artagnan in the side of the head, sending him skittering to the side.

Eyes ablaze with fury, a cut erupting above his eyebrow, d’Artagnan gave as good as he got- launching forwards with a yell he drew Athos towards him using the blade and head butted him, sending him backwards.

Finally fed up with the swordplay, d’Artagnan moved forwards, working the blade as hard and fast as he could, not caring what he was doing- Athos worked as best as he could to keep up, before he too tired of this. They were wasting time- they needed to get to Paris with the others.

Grunting with exertion he stepped forwards, hand shooting out to reach d’Artagnan’s forearm. Snapping his wrist took surprisingly little force- as the younger man reeled from the pain he followed it up with a hard kick to the side of his shin, dislodging the bone with such force it tore the skin and erupted from his trousers.

He fell like his strings has been cut, breathing heavily and gasping in agony.

‘Stay down.’ Athos warned, bringing his rapier down, the point just under d’Artagnan’s chin. ‘No more. Enough.’

Defeated, d’Artagnan slumped, looking down at his leg with horror.

‘Don’t panic.’ Athos assured him, stepping back and wiping his face. ‘Give it a minute,’

Sure enough, after a few moments the bones snapped into place and the wounds stitched themselves back together. D’Artagnan watched it happen with his mouth open, not sure what to feel.

‘We need to go.’ Athos held out a hand. ‘Now.’

D’Artagnan stared up at the hand, and then into the man’s eyes. He had to trust him- there was no other way he could understand this if he didn’t go with him.

‘You got a name?’ He asked as he took the hand and hauled himself up.

‘I told you my name. Call me Athos.’ He didn’t blame the man for forgetting- he had a lot to deal with.

‘Well, Athos- and you can call me d’Artagnan by the way, since you never asked-it’s a good job I know how to drive a horse and cart-‘ he motioned towards Pierre, who was still slumped in the cab. ‘Otherwise we’d be walking to Paris.’

‘No need, I only trust Pierre with driving me.’ Athos smiled, walking over and tapping Pierre on the shoulder. The man rose at once, casting d’Artagnan an amused look as he gathered the reigns again.

‘What the-‘

‘Pierre and I go way back- he was a sailor, travelled the world.’ Athos muttered as he got back onto the cart. ‘You don’t speak any Slavic, do you? He snorted as d’Artagnan shook his head. ‘Come on, get in.’ He added, sitting back.

Snorting under his breath, d’Artagnan stepped inside the cart, slamming the door behind him as Pierre started off again, heading to the outskirts of Paris.


	4. Chapter 4

The Comte de Rochefort was happy. Today was going to be a good day, he could feel it in his bones- he had recently been invited to the upper echelons of the Royal court; his coffers were relatively full, and he had woken up with a beautiful woman in his arms (one of the benefits of having a healthy bank balance.)

He looked up into the blueness of the Parisian sky, barely a cloud to shadow his face as he walked purposefully to the palace from his lodgings. If all days could be like this he could die a happy man. All he had to do now whas schmooze his way to the King’s side, and he would be unstoppable.

He usually rode in a carriage to the Palace, but this day he wanted to walk, to savour the crisp air and the sunshine. As he turned to walk up the long road to the palace his eyes were caught by a clamouring of dirty peasants huddling round an equally dirty man, who was gabbling at them all like a madman.

Rochefort frowned, slowing a little to see what this man was saying- he was attracting a large crowd, and he pondered whether to flag down a red guard to clean this scum off the street. It was creating a spectacle, and so near the palace too.

‘What do we have here?’ He called loudly to the group. As the crowd parted, eyes flicking to the ground as he sauntered over to them, he noticed the man’s shirt was almost matted with blood, and he had a nasty cut at his shoulder.

‘A bar room brawl?’ He spat, eyeing him up. ‘Nasty habits you people have.’

‘No Sir, not at all-‘ the man threw himself forwards, eyes wide as he shook his head. ‘Living dead men did this! They came alive and did this!’ He opened his shirt, grimacing as he turned his neck to show the slash mark in his clavicle.

‘What?’ Rochefort frowned at his words, before turning up his nose as the man moved to grasp his cloak. ‘Unhand me! I think drink has addled your brain- someone take him away and out of my sight!’

‘Dead men are walking!’ The man yelled, eyes wide as he nodded. ‘I swear on all that is holy! I swear it!’

Rochefort, despite his disgust at the state of the man and the insanity of his words, oddly felt compelled by his ludicrous story. ‘Where? Show me.’ He ordered, motioning for the man to follow him.

‘It is a day’s ride, I have only just returned, I-‘

‘Very well- come with me then.’ He turned and walked off, leaving the man to stumble after him.

Once they were in the relative shelter of a courtyard Rochefort turned and, in one movement, grasped the man by the lapel and slammed him into a wall.

‘Now run that by me again- dead men came back to life? How?’

‘We were just minding our business and they came upon us and -‘

Rochefort sneered and, moving his hand over the cut mark on his shoulder, squeezed it. The man sucked in a pained breath, tears erupting in his eyes as blood oozed down his chest.

‘Come now. If you are telling the truth, these men are supposed to be dead, no?’ He smiled sardonically as he released the man, who flinched back, face now pale. ‘Now. What happened?’

‘They were carrying the entire fortune of a nearby village. We pretended to help, to escort them. When we were alone we fired upon them to steal the money…’ he eyed Rochefort warily.

‘Your petty crimes do not trouble me- what happened after?’ He said, impatient now.

‘We were counting the money by the fire when we heard a noise- we turned to find them all up as if we had missed every shot, but we had not. Their blood flooded the ground, they were shot up, but they were alive. They started shooting us, stabbing us, I barely escaped with my-‘

‘Where did these men go?’ Rochefort interrupted him, not interested in his life story. Dead men, arisen as if not affected by mortal weapons. If this crackpot was to be believed, that was.

‘Tell me you saw where they went?’

‘I-I ran into the forest, fleeing for my life.’ The man swallowed as Rochefort rolled his eyes. ‘But, but I followed them at a distance as they moved off. One of them spoke of Paris. They could be here by now.’

‘They’re coming here?’ Rochefort breathed, mind whirring. How fortunate.

‘Sir I tell you, do not seek these men!’ The man shuddered as Rochefort stepped back. ‘They are abominations, devilry!’

‘Yes, yes…’ Rochefort nodded to appease him, rolling his eyes again. ‘What do they look like? Any distinguishing marks?’

The man hesitated, eyes widening as he thought. ‘They wore plain clothes, however one, a man with brown hair, had on a red scarf. The others were plain.’

‘A red scarf.’ Rochefort resisted the urge to close his eyes in frustration. ‘How….easy to spot…’

‘They would be newcomers, I-‘ the man suddenly turned his head, eyes widening once more. ‘There!’ He gabbled, nodding his head. ‘Him, he’s there!’

Rochefort turned, unwilling to believe his luck could be so good. A man was walking the outskirts of the courtyard, a brown bag in his hands and a red scarf around his neck. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive.’ The man relaxed as Rochefort stepped backwards. The two men looked at each other, before Rochefort realised why the man was staring at him. He sighed and dig deep in his pocket, throwing a handful of Livre onto the cobblestones, before walking off, following the man in the red scarf as he walked the alleyways of Paris.

* * *

After an hour the man turned and headed into a tavern, which Rochefort knew was relatively quiet at this time of the morning. After waiting for a few beats Rochefort entered, spying the man at a table in the far corner, a glass of ale in hand and a plate of bread, cheese and meat in front of him.

‘Travelled far?’ He called as he waited at the bar. The man tensed, turning his head towards him with narrowed eyes.

‘You look tired. I haven’t seen you around before, and I know everybody.’ Rochefort explained easily, throwing a sous onto the bar as he was handed a drink.

‘Is that so?’ The man said, spearing some meat on his fork as Rochefort advanced, planting himself on the chair opposite him.

‘Yes.’ Rochefort nodded. ‘You can call me Rochefort.’ He offered his hand.

‘Marsac.’ Marsac accepted the handshake, voice still wary.

‘Another drink?’ Rochefort asked, before waving the barman over. ‘You look like a man who likes a drink.’

‘That obvious?’ Marsac snorted, before ordering his drink. ‘What do you want?’

Rochefort smiled, sitting back. He nodded to Marsac’s red scarf, smiling appreciatively. ‘I am a man that people like to talk to, you know? Just this morning a fellow, injured and bleeding, told me quite an absurd story of a group of people who…’ he stopped, delighting in the way Marsac’s eyes widened a fraction. ‘Well…silly really…he seemed to suggest that some recently deceased people just…woke up. Killed many of his friends.’

‘Is that so?’ Marsac said, shrugging as he popped some cheese in his mouth. ‘What an imagination.’

‘Quite. He seemed so sure, and he was also able to tell me that one of the dead men wore a red scarf, just like yours…’ Rochefort smiled wider. ‘Also, and here’s the smoking gun….he pointed you out in the street. Fancy that.’

‘Fancy that.’ Marsac echoed, pushing his plate away. A few weighted seconds passed. ‘What do you want?’

Rochefort couldn’t believe his luck- he would have thought an admission would be like getting blood out of a stone. He could just imagine the fortune he could amass from a troupe of never-dying men. He would be famous through Paris, no, the world…

‘Must be tiring.’ He muttered, taking a gulp of wine to show he wanted just a cordial chat. ‘To live for so long and never to die. All those years, alone I take it?’

Marsac eyed him, saying nothing. He looked to the door- he cursed himself for leaving his weapons in the safe house.

‘Please. No need to run- I mean you no harm.’ He spread his hands out, shrugging. ‘It’s fascinating, is all. I am a man of science, but-‘ he touched his crucifix and eyed the heavens. ‘-don’t speak too loud or He may hear..’ he grinned.

‘Science cannot explain this. Nothing can.’ Marsac said ruefully, taking a swallow of what tasted like rum that the barman handed him.

‘I beg to differ. These are enlightened times, despite what you may hear. I have a friend- he could help, I’m sure.’

‘Help?’ Marsac scoffed. ‘How?’

‘He can find out what makes you live. He could turn it off, perhaps. Would you like that?’

Marsac breathed in, eying the man up. He didn’t know whether to trust him, but he seemed sincere. Aramis and Porthos has expected him back with the ingredients for their evening meal over an hour ago. Athos was due to meet them that night. He needed to get back, yet….

‘Come now…’ Rochefort shrugged. ‘How old are you?’

‘Too old.’

‘Living forever can’t be fun. You’ve lost people I bet, haven’t you? People you loved. Gone, yet you keep on living.’

Marsac swallowed, images of his sons wafting in front of his mind. ‘It’s…hard. When you have no one.’

‘Yes, I can barely imaging your pain of living whilst others perish.’ Rochefort said, nodding at his words. Finally he stood, scraping his chair back on the flagstone floor. ‘I can help you- my friend is more than able to help. Perhaps speak to the others, see if they would be willing to talk. Meet me back here tomorrow with their answer?’

‘They will not want to talk, but I can try.’ Marsac nodded.

‘Marsac, you will not regret this.’ Rochefort smiled, shaking his hand again. ‘Your troubles may soon be over, my friend.’

‘I have to go now.’ Marsac said, gathering his things.

‘Of course…’ Rochefort followed him out,before watching as Marsac loped down the street, looking back suspiciously.

He turned and dropped a bag of Livre in a scruffy man’s lap. Hugh was useful at times like this. ‘Follow that man, report to me where he lives.’

Nodding once, Hugh stood and walked away, following Marsac as he made his way back to the safe house.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for period typical racism in this chapter.

It was nearly twilight when Pierre dropped them off in Goussainville. ‘I thought you said we were going to Paris?’ D’Artagnan frowned as Athos led them into an overgrown graveyard, the church standing proud ahead of them.

‘We’re twelve miles outside of Paris.’ Athos shrugged. ‘This place has been abandoned for years.’

‘Why?’

Athos smiled, nodding down to a spot a little way off to their left. There was a large, long hole in the ground. ‘Turns out there was a mine shaft under the church. The local parishioners didn’t really fancy taking their lives in their hands every time they went to mass.’

D’Artagnan shuddered at the thought of falling down a mine shaft, but the thoughts soon left him as he and Athos crossed the grounds and made their way to the front door of the adjoining building.

‘Is Aramis baking bread again?’ Athos asked, sniffing the air as soon as they stepped into the room.

‘As always,’ Porthos replied from his seat by the oven, smiling over as Aramis kneaded another ball of dough. ‘I swear he has to bake a loaf every time we go somewhere new!’

‘Marsac found some seeds and oats in the market. I’ve incorporated them into the dough so we have something different,’ Aramis explained as he worked.

‘You’re a man of many talents,’ Porthos laughed, shaking his head affectionately.

‘So they tell me!’ Aramis grinned, before dropping the dough into a bowl and leaving it by the oven to rise.

‘And who have you brought us, Athos?’ He smiled as he sat down, wiping his hands. He looked across to d’Artagnan, a warm expression on his face as the younger man raised a hand.

‘This is d’Artagnan.’ Athos introduced him, sitting down next to Porthos and motioning for d’Artagnan to also take a seat.

‘Nice to me you, lad.’ Porthos nodded. D’Artagnan noticed he was polishing a large, curved blade with a whetstone, the metal almost sparkling.

‘What’s that?’ He asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Porthos smiled. ‘It’s called a scimitar.’

‘I’ve never seen one of those before.’

‘I don’t doubt it- it’s not something you see everyday.’ Porthos nodded.

‘Where did you get it?’

Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances. Aramis leant back in his seat, ‘Porthos and I met in the crusades.’

‘The crusades?’ D’Artagnan looked over to him, surprised.

‘We fought each other, killed each other-‘ Aramis started to explain, but Porthos cut in.

‘-many times!’

Aramis smiled at his words, before he nodded to Porthos on the other side of the table. ‘The love of my life was of the kind I had been taught to kill.’

‘Love of your life?’ D’Artagnan echoed his words, scoffing. ‘But the crusades were a noble cause, sanctioned by the church- they deserved it, so my father taught me!’ He stopped, suddenly worried as the table fell silent. He was more confused when Porthos, who had let him speak with barely a flicker of emotion, gave him a warm, almost knowing, smile.

Aramis took in a breath. ‘Lad, please don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say it took me centuries to work those thoughts, the bigotry and the lies, out of my mind. You are young, and you have been taught only what your father wants you to hear. What your country wants you to hear.’ He looked over to Porthos, who smiled at him and winked.

‘Believe me when I say this man is the kindest, most loving and generous soul you could ever meet. All men are worthy, are equal. You just need to open your eyes to see it.’ He finished, sitting back in his chair.

D’Artagnan felt his cheeks heat up. He looked over to Porthos, who raised his eyebrows at him, not unkindly, like he was waiting for him to speak.

‘I’m sorry.’ He mumbled, meaning every word.

‘There is nothing to be sorry about. I’m not too old to care about the words of others, but what I am is too old to get angry by them. As Aramis said, you are young. You will learn.’ He nodded. ‘Although I find it a bit odd your father is so staunch in his views, considering- and I mean no offence myself- that you are not exactly complexioned like freshly driven snow!’

D’Artagnan snorted, nodding his agreement as he realised the truth in his words. ‘My grandmother.’ He explained, smiling as he remembered her kind face, her warm arms around him as she rocked in her chair, reading to him. He sat back, before looking up as Athos poured him some wine.

‘I noticed you did not speak your views on the ‘love of my life’ statement,’ Aramis grinned, a sly grin on his face. He had decided he liked this young man, but he had to test all boundaries, of course.

D’Artagnan shrugged, nonchalant. ‘I’ve seen the way the baker in my village and the man who delivers the mail to the Manor House look at each other when they cross in the street, thinking no one else can see. Love can take many forms I think. It can’t be helped.’

‘Him- I like him!’ Porthos laughed, leaning forward to clink glasses with d’Artagnan, who was feeling more comfortable by the second.

He looked over as he suddenly noticed a man in an armchair by the fire. ‘Marsac, come drink with us.’ Athos muttered, pouring another glass and placing it at an empty seat.

‘So, whose side are you on?’ D’Artagnan asked as Marsac finally joined them, nodding at d’Artagnan, a friendly smile on his face.

‘Depends on the century.’ Porthos said, shrugging.

‘We fight for what we think is right.’ Aramis added, sipping his wine.

‘How did you know where to find me?’ D’Artagnan looked to Athos, confused. ‘I could’ve been anywhere.’

‘We dreamt of you. It happens when we find a new one- we dream of each other until we are found.’ Aramis explained for him.

‘It used to take years to find a new ones. Marsac was the last.’ Porthos added, looking to Marsac, who swallowed his drink and shrugged.

‘I was killed defending Paris in the One Hundred Years’ War.’ He explained. D’Artagnan nearly spat out his drink.

‘But…but that was, what? Two hundred years ago?!’ He breathed. Marsac nodded at his words, trying not to smile as d’Artagnan then turned to Aramis and Porthos.

‘And you two are even older!’ He sat back, before then turning to Athos. ‘You’re the oldest, aren’t you?’

Athos inclined his head in answer, taking a breath.

‘How old?’ D’Artagnan frowned as he saw Porthos and Aramis exchange a glance.

‘Old.’ Athos replied.

‘But how old?’

Athos drained his glass and poured another, wiping his mouth before answering. ‘Too old.’

Sensing he shouldn’t pry any further, D’Artagnan sat back, suddenly feeling very overwhelmed by everything. ‘So we really never die…’ he muttered, a dawning comprehension falling into his chest.

Athos cleared his throat. ‘Nothing that lives, lives forever, lad.’

‘But, you just said-‘

‘I know what I said.’ Athos’ voice was gruff, but he tried to relax his face as he saw the stricken look on the younger man’s face. ‘We are immortal, but we can die. One of us did.’ He sighed, memories he had pushed out for years now flooding back. ‘His name was Treville- it was a long time ago….one day your wounds just don’t heal up, and you die.’

The room was hushed, each man looking at Athos as he spoke, his voice carrying on the silence. ‘We don’t know when, or why it happens.’

‘So…if we can die…’ d’Artagnan gave Athos a look. ‘Then why did you stab me? You could have killed me!’

‘You’re too new, lad,’ Athos said, a wan smile on his face.

D’Artagnan sat back, digesting everything he had been told. He held onto the edge of the table as he felt his heart quicken.

‘It’s a lot to take in, to understand,’ Aramis spoke softly, looking over to him with concerned eyes. ‘Why don’t you rest a little? I have saved you some supper, and the bread won’t be long.’

‘I..I don’t think I can eat…’ d’Artagnan shook his head, swallowing hard. ‘I need sleep.’

‘Come with me, I’ll show you.’ Aramis nodded, standing. The two of them made their way to the back of the room, where three beds were huddled together.

‘Here, I will bring you more blankets, it gets cold here at night.’

‘Thank you.’ D’Artagnan replied numbly, thoughts racing through his head. He turned to Aramis as he made to leave. ‘Thanks, for making me feel welcome. I appreciate it.’

Aramis nodded at his words. ‘Speak to me any time you like- being a new immortal is not easy. We all know that. We are more than happy to help.’

Nodding, d’Artagnan sank into the bed, eyes closing before his head hit the pillow.

* * *

Nightfall. The only noise was the chirruping of crickets and the flickering flames in the dying fire. Marsac occupied the bed on the right of d’Artagnan, whilst Porthos and Aramis slept together in the bed to his left. Aramis was encased against Porthos’ chest, an arm protectively slung over his chest as they slept.

Athos was sat near the fire in the kitchen area, staring into embers as they crackled and spat, a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. He flexed his hand, wincing slightly as pain sparked in the muscles. He sighed, fear starting to to sink into his heart. This shouldn’t happen. Pain was a thing of the past, or it was, once.

He suddenly jumped as he heard d’Artagnan let out a large, panicked gasp, gulping air as he sat up in bed, eyes wide.

Marsac had reached for his gun as he too shot up out of bed- Porthos and Aramis sat up too, hearts in their mouths as they watched d’Artagnan wipe his face, his breathing laboured and harsh.

‘What’s wrong?’ Marsac asked, hands still laced around his gun.

‘It was…it was a bad dream…’ d’Artagnan wiped his face again with a shaky hand. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have woken you.’

Aramis sat up straighter, pushing sleep out his eyes as Porthos laid a hand on his leg, squeezing lightly. ‘Tell us,’ he said softly, smiling encouragingly.

‘I-I’ve seen flashes of it, when I woke up when I died, but now it’s clearer.’ D’Artagnan swallowed, looking around the room. ‘A woman. She-she was scrabbling at her neck…she was being hung, but was encased in something I couldn’t make out until now…a box, like a coffin. She had been locked in something like a box, and then buried upright. The details aren’t clear...’

Athos stepped closer, eyes wide as d’Artagnan began to speak again. ‘She was dying again and again, her neck constricting as soon as she came back. She…she was scratching at her neck, her fingers bloody as she tried to free herself.’ He looked up at Aramis and Porthos, who were both looking at her with stricken looks on their faces.

‘She felt mad, insane…but she kept choking…’ d’Artagnan finally looked up, eyes glassy as silence fell around them.

Aramis took a steadying breath. The lad deserved an explanation.

He looked over to Porthos, who gave him a encouraging smile, before he began to speak.

‘Her name was Milady.’


	6. Chapter 6

Porthos settled back into a sitting position against the wall, eyes on d’Artagnan as the younger man stared across at him, confused. ‘She was one of us. The first immortal Athos found. They had both been alone for so long that Milady had given up. She didn’t know what to do. Finding Athos gave them both purpose again.’ Porthos looked to Athos but found that the man had encased himself in shadows by the wall. He knew he could still hear him, however, so continued speaking. ‘For all those years it was just her and Athos running through the world together, fighting wars and battles…’ he snorted lightly, shaking his head, ‘she was like a pit viper in a fight. They relied on each other.’

Aramis looked up now, eyes dark. ‘They were in England, around two hundred years ago. They were freeing so called heretics from the witch trials.’ He scoffed and looked down, before looking back up at d’Artagnan, eyes narrowed. ‘Soon they too were captured and accused of witchcraft themselves. They were tortured extensively, then hanged. When they awoke it just proved their case against them. They were kept in a dungeon, chained together, for months. Their captors tried to break their resolve but couldn’t do it. Soon they realised that, together, they were too powerful, they…’ Aramis sighed before continuing. ‘They separated them, but in front of Athos they executed their plan for Milady. Women were always treated worse, still are now,’ he said tersely.  
‘They sat her on a chair at first, wrapped a rope around her neck as tight as it would go using some sort of contraption. She died the first time, scrabbling at the rope, eyes only on Athos as he fought to get to her, to save her. As she awoke she couldn’t breathe as the rope was so tight. She died again. And again. Over and over she awoke only to die, scrabbling at the rope to allow her a modicum of air.’ Aramis looked over to Athos, his heart filling with sadness as he saw the moonlight shining on his friend’s glassy eyes.

‘They buried her deep underground in an upright coffin, like an iron maiden. It was big enough for her feet not to touch the bottom as she was thrown in, just to make sure their plan would work. Then the hole was covered.’

‘After Athos escaped we spent decades searching for Milady. The grave had been covered over, perhaps even built over, so we couldn’t find her. We found guards and people who Athos recognised as being there when they were captured , but they either wouldn’t or couldn’t tell us where she was buried.’ Porthos continued, voice low. ‘Athos has lived with the guilt ever since.’

At these words, Athos appeared in the doorway, face pale as he looked at the scene in front of him. D’Artagnan turned in his bed to face him, a frown clouding his features as he took in Porthos’ words. ‘Why do you blame yourself?’

Athos took a few moments to gather himself. ‘I lost a soldier.’ He eventually replied, voice stoic.

D’Artagnan sat back, taking a deep breath. ‘I feel her anger. Her rage. She feels…insane.’

‘All those years, buried alive, hanging for eternity,’ Porthos breathed, looking up at to Athos. ‘…that would make anyone insane.’

‘That’s why we dread capture.’ Aramis added simply, shaking his head.

Marsac, who had been listening intently to the others, looked up sharply as d’Artagnan moved off the bed, a hard look on his face. He strode past Athos and grabbed his coat as he made his way to the door, slamming it behind him.

Athos looked over to the others, who didn’t move. They looked back at him, unsure of what to do. Pushing himself away from the doorframe Athos turned and followed the younger man outside. He was so preoccupied with spotting d’Artagnan in the darkness that he didn’t notice the group of men creeping around the side of the church, guns and blades drawn as they approached the house, silent as the night.

* * *

He found him by some graves a little way from the safe house, reading the inscriptions carefully. ‘D’Artagnan.’ He called, voice low.

At this, d’Artagnan turned and looked at him, eyes dark as he shook his head. ‘I don’t want this.’ He started, eyes seemingly both scared and fearless at the same time as Athos approached. ‘I don’t want any of it. I want to go home.’

‘I know, just come back inside, I-‘

‘When you first found me I thought that, despite everything, it would be alright… but there isn’t one good bit about any of this! Nothing!’

Athos inwardly sighed, and moved a step closer. He had fought this man, knew what he could be like if he felt cornered. ‘I know this is hard, lad.’ He said quietly, ‘but this is happening whether you like it or not. I know you’re scared, so was I when it happened to me.’ He pointed back towards the house without looking, his eyes only on d’Artagnan. ‘Me and those three men in there will keep you safe, I promise.’

D’Artagnan snorted lightly and resisted the urge to shake his head. ‘Like Milady?’

‘We’re all you’ve got now.’ Athos ignored the barb. Seconds later, a cacophony of gunfire sounded around them- Athos surged forwards and pulled d’Artagnan down, drawing his own gun as he lookedback up at the house.

‘What’s happening?’ D’Artagnan breathed as he and Athos moved silently forwards.

Athos looked up, at the shadows cast across the stonework of the church by the moon as more men moved into the house. ‘They’ve found us.’


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an anachronistic use of the word ‘asshole’ in this chapter but you’ll see why I just couldn’t leave it out... :)

Five minutes earlier….

Aramis sighed as he watched Athos’ retreating back, heading for the door after d’Artagnan. ‘I should go after him,’ he muttered to Porthos, who had lain back down, wiping his face tiredly. ‘They might need my help.’

‘Relax, Aramis, they’ll be fine.’ Porthos smiled, reaching up and grasping Aramis’ wrist gently and pulling him down onto his back next to him. ‘Athos will bring him back.’ He added, pressing a kiss onto Aramis’ temple and drawing patterns onto his shoulder, the way he always did when Aramis was anxious about something.

It was something of a ritual they had developed after so many years together- Porthos liked to mull his problems over, talk it through with Aramis over a drink or in the early mornings when everyone else was still asleep, while Aramis was more inward and tended to keep his worries inside, only letting them out when they had festered enough to make him withdrawn, or even ill. Porthos tried to remedy that wherever he could.

Aramis turned and smiled at his lover; they locked eyes for a few moments, a silent understanding passing between them before Aramis snorted lightly and leaned forwards, catching Porthos’ lips with his own for a second. ‘We should get some sleep.’ He muttered as he drew back- they both turned around as Marsac kicked off his covers with a sigh, wiping a hand down his face.

‘You should try and sleep.’ Porthos called to him as he pulled on his boots. ‘We have a long few days ahead of us.’

‘Can’t sleep. Thinking too much.’ Marsac replied, standing up. He was restless, and Rochefort’s words were still ringing in his mind, and all this with d’Artagnan made him more conflicted, yet almost certain he had done the right thing.

The poor lad was over his head, as they all were..if Rochefort could find a cure, as promised, then their troubles would soon be over…

‘Where are you going?’ Aramis asked, all traces of sleep also gone from his own mind; there was no way he could relax now. He sat up too and bent down to lace up his own boots.

‘Nowhere. Just into the living area-‘ Marsac nodded to the fireplace, and Athos’ abandoned armchair. ‘I just don’t fancy getting a nail up through my foot as I walk there- I never much liked dying from infected feet…’

Aramis chuckled at that, nodding his agreement. ‘I found an interesting book on one of the shelves in the parlour. I might get some reading done while they’re outside,’ he muttered to Porthos, who smiled after him as he left the room to fetch the book.

‘You got any cards?’ He called to Marsac, who was busy unstoppering a wine bottle.

‘On the table.’ He answered, grunting as he finally got the cork out and poured wine into two small glasses. ‘You playing?’

‘I might play a few games, seeing as I’m now wide awake,’ Porthos nodded, pulling on his jacket and stuffing his feet into his boots.

He sat heavily into another armchair, a cloud of dust erupting around him as he relaxed into it. They both looked round as they heard the scraping of wood against stone. Aramis looked up from where he was dragging a chair out from the table to sit down. ‘Found it,’ he muttered with a smile, pulling a plate of buttered bread towards him as he opened the book to begin reading.

There was only a few seconds of peace before there was an almighty bang at the door, startling all three men as two large iron balls were thrown, smoking, into the room. Porthos was up before they hit the floor, eyes wide as he threw himself towards Aramis, pulling the man off his chair and down onto the floor as the two grenades exploded, sending shrapnel skittering in every direction.

‘Go, go!’ He shouted above the defending noise and subsequent ringing in their ears as he pushed Aramis onwards, mercifully unharmed.

‘Marsac!’ Aramis called- both men were up on their feet in seconds, although totally unarmed. Looking around, Aramis swore as he saw Marsac still in the armchair, his stomach area torn and intestines exposed, blood peppering his dead face. They tensed as a horde of armoured men moved into the room, their guns and swords drawn- taken completely by surprise it was all they could do to fend the men off by hand as they advanced. From somewhere in the crowd Porthos heard an order of ‘don’t shoot them!’ ring out.

As one came close he threw himself at him, growling in anger as he wrenched the sword away from him and used the weapon to cut him down.

‘Porthos!’ Aramis yelled in warning, before punching an oncoming man in the face and sending him staggering backwards.

‘Look out!’ Porthos called, but it was too late- Aramis was rushed by three men, and even with his supreme fighting skills and prowess he was quickly overwhelmed. Porthos could only watch as one of the men stabbed Aramis in the stomach, sending him to his knees, dead before he hit the floor.

‘No!’ Porthos yelled, a renewed fight erupting in his chest as he launched himself at the three men now crowding around Aramis- with an almost inhuman cry of anger he cut each man down where they stood, before anchoring himself between Aramis’ prone body and the oncoming men, now wielding guns in close quarters.

Breathing heavily, Porthos did the best he could as the men advanced- as each man dropped like a stone in front of him, blood spattering the floor, he willed Aramis to wake up. He didn’t dare chance a look down; suddenly a man surged forwards and struck him in the temple with the stock of his gun with such force that, as Porthos fell to the floor next to Aramis, he felt his skull break, sending shards of bone into his brain, killing him instantly.

As the chaos stopped, the men looked around, wide eyed, at the carnage. ‘Get them in the cart,’ one of them ordered after a few weighted seconds. ‘I want at least six men with them, and I want their hands bound.’

* * *

Athos stepped towards the small house as quietly as he could, gun drawn, eyes narrowed. He could feel d’Artagnan stepping close behind him, and wished he had a weapon to give him.

‘Aramis? Porthos?’ He called into the silence. He didn’t like the sound of this silence at all.

They both advanced round the corner, each holding their breaths as they finally entered the room.

‘Shit…’ Athos breathed as he saw Marsac’s body in the armchair, his innards in his lap.

‘Oh…’ d’Artagnan couldn’t finish his sentence. Eyes wide, he felt his stomach roil at the sight as Athos moved closer, squatting down next to Marsac and looking him over.

‘Go and find Aramis and Porthos.’ Athos instructed, holding out his gun.

‘I’ve never shot a pistol before,’ d’Artagnan muttered, taking it anyway.

‘Don’t hold it by the end with the hole in it. Aim vaguely in the direction of a bad guy if you find one. Press that little metal bit to shoot.’ Athos replied, not taking his eyes off Marsac. ‘Oh, and don’t drop it. It’s my favourite.’

‘Right…’ d’Artagnan rolled his eyes at his words, moving off, eyes peeled for the other two men.

‘Come on…wake up…’ Athos muttered, panic rearing in his chest as Marsac still didn’t stir. He looked down, at the blood dripping onto his trousers from his obliterated stomach.

‘Come back to me, Marsac,’ he willed, stepping forwards and grasping either side of his face, shaking it slightly. ‘Come on!’ He couldn’t lose another one.

‘Come on!’ He growled, louder now, pushing their foreheads together as if that could make Marsac come alive any faster- it seemed to do the trick, however, as Marsac suddenly inhaled loudly, before coughing hard and groaning as he was enveloped in agony.

‘Welcome back, asshole.’ Athos nodded to him as he moved back, watching as Marsac drew in another haggard breath, screwing his face up as his stomach began to knit itself back together.‘Thanks for taking your time.’

‘Arghh..’ Marsac groaned, sucking air through his teeth. ‘It hurts everywhere.’

They both looked up as d’Artagnan came back into view, standing beside Athos, eyes wide. ‘They’re not here.’ He muttered, worry settling in his chest.

He looked down as Marsac coughed wetly, groaning. ‘How bad is it?’ He asked. D’Artagnan quirked an eyebrow, quite unsure of how to respond.

Athos chuckled, letting out the tension he had been carrying as he stood up. ‘It’s an improvement.’ He replied, smirking as Marsac let out a breathy laugh.

‘How many?’ He asked, taking back his gun from d’Artagnan and checking the barrel.

‘I don’t know.’ Marsac replied, peering down at his stomach, face pale.

‘Where are Aramis and Porthos?’

‘I don’t know!’ Marsac replied, voice now taut and sharp. ‘We-we were playing cards, Aramis was reading. Then I took a grenade and then, nothing…’ he sat back, wheezing slightly as d’Artagnan and Athos looked on.

* * *

Meanwhile, standing in the shadows of a large copse of trees, illuminated by the moonlight, Rochefort stood surveying the scene. Two down, three to go, if Hugh could be believed. He looked to his right and watched as his men struggled to lift Aramis and Porthos into the covered wooden cart.

‘Easy with them.’ He growled as he walked nearer, peering down at the two corpses as the men dropped them by the cart. ‘These could be my way to the top.’ He muttered, more to himself than the others. He looked to one of the men, face now set. ‘Bring them and the others to the dungeons. Before we present them to the palace, we must have undeniable proof of their abilities.’

He stepped back as Aramis and Porthos were roughly picked up and their bodies slumped onto the floor of the cart, before six brawny men joined them, closing the barred door behind them.

* * *

As they watched Marsac’s stomach stitch itself back together, Athos suddenly had a horrible, sickly thought. ‘They’re coming back. They want all of us.’

‘How did they even know we were here?’ D’Artagnan frowned.

‘The man we didn’t kill. He must’ve lived and told someone…’ Athos wasn’t concerned about the whys, just what they were going to do about it. He pressed the heel of his hand into his eyes, shaking his head. ‘I saw a cart outside. There must be a horse we can borrow- both of you, wait here.’ He turned to the door. ‘Gather Aramis and Porthos’ belongings. Wait for my signal.’ With that, he strode off, back outside.

‘What signal?’ D’Artagnan called after him, before sighing and turning to Marsac as he let out a pained chuckle.

‘We’ll know it when we see it, don’t worry.’ He assured him, before letting out a low groan. ‘By the way,’ he muttered, pointing at his rapidly healing stomach. ‘It’s not always like this now. Bigger wounds take longer to heal…’

‘Right…’ d’Artagnan nodded, trying not to continue to turn up his nose as he watched.

* * *

Athos stepped carefully onto the dew-laden grass outside the church, letting the light of the moon guide him. Shadows danced against the walls, yet he blended into them as if he were one, silently making his way into the building. As he entered the old building, careful not to be seen by the oncoming men, he reached behind him, to the broadsword tethered to his back. The steel glinted in the moonbeams, and Athos curled his hands around the hilt, ready to strike the men making their way along the nave.

Hiding behind the pillars he watched them pass him- seconds later he made his move. He cut down the first two men with ease, his blade sweeping their legs out from under them, sending them straight to the floor with mottled cries. Ducking another blade he twisted to the side easily, dodging the knife as he struck the next man- with a grunt he moved forwards and punched another, sending him to the side before he drew his sword into his chest, blood spattering the floor.

He yelled out in pain as he felt a knife enter his upper back, near his collarbone- turning awkwardly he wrenched it out and used it to stab the offending man in the neck, sending him to the floor with a cry of pain.

Soon there was only one man left- Athos knew by now that he couldn’t leave this one alive. Moving forwards, sword raised, the man didn’t get a chance to raise his weapon- the sword entered his chest and poked out the other side, and it was only when Athos, breathing heavily, moved back a step and drew out his blade that the man crumpled to the floor.

There was a few seconds of silence now, accompanied by something Athos hadn’t felt in a long time. Pain. He pushed it from his mind; he was sure there were more men. They were probably hiding now, biding their time, waiting for orders.

He stowed his blade away now,reaching to his coat pockets and pulling out two guns. He was ready for them if they did decide to come, that was for sure.

* * *

D’Artagnan watched as Marsac suddenly reared up and out of his seat, eyes still scrunched in pain as his stomach finished its healing process. ‘Come on, lets get all the stuff ready to go.’ He muttered as he buttoned up a new shirt.

‘We need to hurry, come on!’ D’Artagnan nodded, rushing round to gather their belongings. ‘Come on!’ He repeated as Marsac almost seemed to amble over to their beds, taking his time.

‘Don’t worry lad. Wait for the signal.’

‘How do you even know what the signal is?’ D’Artagnan threw back, voice quizzical. Seconds later, there was an almighty explosion and the back wall of their safe house blew out towards the opposite wall.

‘Oh.’ D’Artagnan muttered, blinking.

‘Come on, time to go.’ Marsac nodded- together they gathered all their things and stepped through the newly-created door. It led them into the church, the only light available being the moonlight that shone ahead.

D’Artagnan swallowed, eyes wide, as he took in the scene, the utter carnage. Dead men littered the floor, twisted and dismembered and bloody. ‘Athos did all of this?’ He breathed, tensing now as Marsac overtook him on the way to the door.

Marsac scoffed lightly at his words. ‘That man has forgotten more ways to kill than entire armies will ever learn- come on!’ He muttered, waiting for him to catch up.

Together they ran back down the sodden stone floor and out into the courtyard of the church- Athos was stood by a cart, a horse already saddled up. His eyes met d’Artagnan, and the two of them stared at each other as the two men approached.

A new feeling was settling into d’Artagnan’s chest, making him feel sick. Where once he had felt comfort, even safety, when looking into Athos’ eyes, now he felt….fear. What else was this man capable of?

He jumped slightly as Marsac hopped onto the cart and yelled at them both to get in. As soon as they had both hopped onto the cart he moved the horse off, to a destination of safety as they worked out what to do next.


	8. Chapter 8

Life forced its way back into Porthos first, clawing at his throat like acid. He coughed hard into the air around him, before his eyes snapped open, looking for Aramis. He tried raising his arms to shield his eyes from the orange glare of a lantern somewhere to his right, but found his arms were bound tightly in front of him, tethered at the wrists.

‘Aramis?’ He muttered, pointedly ignoring the men, clad in dark clothes, that he could now see were sat either side of both him and Aramis, who was still slumped on to the eyes closed.

‘Aramis?’ He spoke again, leaning downwards to try and touch his shoulder, to check he was alright. ‘Wake up, love.’ He added, panic in his voice. ‘Come back to me.’

‘Shut it!’ One of the guards next to Aramis growled, voice dark. ‘Sit back and stop talking!’

‘What are you going to do?’ Porthos growled, eyes dark. ‘Kill me?’ The man scoffed, but said nothing as Porthos leaned down again.

‘Aramis, come on, wake up…’ He repeated, eyes wide as Aramis still didn’t stir. Suddenly, mercifully, Aramis moved his shoulder, rolling them to get movement back in his muscles.

‘I’m alright, I’m here. Wherever here is…’ his voice was honey to Porthos’ ears, who felt a rush of relief flood his body as he watched Aramis’ eyes flick open, yet he still remained slumped.

‘In a cart. They killed us both and dragged us here...are you alright?’ He asked, voice laced with concern.

‘I said shut it!’ The man said, now standing up in the cramped space to bodily push Porthos back in his seat.

‘I need to know if he’s alright!’ Porthos told him, imploring him to see.

The man scoffed. ‘So touching- what is he then, your boyfriend?’ He looked around, grinning, as a ripple of laughter answered his words from the men surrounding them.

Porthos looked up at him, head cocked to one side as he took in a breath. ‘You’re a child. An infant. Your mocking is thus infantile.’ He looked over to Aramis, who had managed to sit up, his face still pinched with residual pain.

‘He’s not my boyfriend. This man is more to me than you can dream. He’s the moon when I’m lost in darkness and warmth when I shiver in cold, and his kiss still thrills me, even after a millennia.

His heart overflows with the kindness of which this world is not worthy of. I love this man beyond measure and reason. He’s not my boyfriend. He’s all and he’s more.’

Silence followed his words, so much so that after a few seconds the only sound that could be heard was Aramis, snorting softly as he looked lovingly into Porthos’ eyes.

‘You’re an incurable romantic,’ He smiled, before both of them simultaneously leaned forwards, their lips meetings with a jolt as they kissed.

A rush of movement followed their embrace, but this time both Porthos and Aramis were ready for their captors. They grinned as they were pulled apart- time to show these men what real fighters were like….

* * *

Around twenty minutes later the horses carrying the cart slowed and they heard footsteps approaching the door.

Rochefort strode over to the back of the cart- taking a deep breath he nodded to one of the men accompanying him to cut the lock and pull open the doors.

He stepped back a pace, shocked, as a number of bodies fell out the back, crumpling to the dirt floor.

‘I don’t suppose someone can take these binds off us?’ Aramis asked lightly from the back of the cart, holding out his wrists.

‘Get them out. Bring them down to the rendezvous.’ Rochefort muttered, before plastering a smile on his face.

‘Gentlemen. I apologise for the treatment to which these men subjected you. It was not my intention to treat you like cattle.’

‘Could have fooled us.’ Porthos shot back as he was pulled roughly forwards and out of the cart, closely followed by Aramis.

‘I assure you they will be dealt with appropriately.’ Rochefort nodded as he watched them stand and stretch their muscles.

‘No need. We already did that for you.’ Aramis shrugged, cricking his neck.

‘I can see that.’ Rochefort agreed, before taking a deep breath. ‘I do not intend to treat you harshly. I have heard of your…ability. Come with me, and we can talk.’

‘It doesn’t really look like we have a choice, does it?’ Porthos said, rattling his chains.

‘Quite. Come, we can get you sorted out at the chateau.’

‘This doesn’t sound ominous at all, does it Porthos?’ Aramis rolled his eyes, before he and Porthos were forced into yet another cart. Aramis whistled appreciatively as he was pushed inside.

‘Look Porthos, leather seats!’

‘Ooh, fancy!’ Porthos nodded, looking around. ‘Any chance for some champagne for the ride?’

* * *

It was nearing midnight when the cart trundled to a stop, at the foot of what seemed like a small mountain.

‘What is this place?’ D’Artagnan asked as Marsac threw down the reigns and got off the cart, stretching.

‘Abandoned mine, we found it years ago.’ Athos replied, face pale in the moonlight. ‘We’ll be safe here while we find out where Porthos and Aramis are.’

They walked in silence through the empty mine. Just as the walls seemed to press in at all sides, making d’Artagnan feel very claustrophobic, the area opened up to show a vast area, filled with all sorts of materials.

‘Is…is this gold?’ D’Artagnan breathed, eyes wide as he looked down at a vast quantity of yellow bars in a barrel near a large rock, on which Athos had sat, sighing.

‘Indeed it is. We need some way to finance our lives, no?’ He replied. ‘There’s a barrel of diamonds over there if you want to have a look.’

‘Seriously?’ The younger man’s face positively lit up as he turned to look.

‘Marsac, make a fire, it’s cold tonight.’ He muttered to the other man, who nodded and walked away to find some firewood.

Now letting out the pained sigh he had been holding in since he left the safe house, Athos gingerly took off his jacket, letting it slip off with a heavy clump onto the dusty floor. Pulling his arm out of the various shirtsleeves took time and fiddly effort, but it wasn’t until he got to his last shirt, sticky with blood, that he gasped in pain. Putting a hand carefully onto the knife wound he had sustained in the fight in the church, he pulled it back to reveal a red palm. Red with flesh blood-He was still bleeding.

Eyes wide, he looked round to make sure no one else was watching. The pain stung now, harsh and incessant. His stomach dropped as he dressed himself again, and his head swam. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not to him…

‘Athos, you alright?’ D’Artagnan called across from where he was admiring a clutch of paintings.

‘Fine.’ Athos nodded stoically. ‘We need more food. I’m going to go and get some bread and meat- won’t be long.’

He looked across to Marsac, who was walking back with an armful of wood. ‘Make the fire, and then go out and talk to people. See if anyone knows who took Aramis and Porthos.’

‘Yes, boss.’ Marsac replied, trying not to avoid his eyes. He was due to meet Rochefort in the morning, but he couldn’t believe that he had betrayed him like that. He had been so stupid…and yet, perhaps Rochefort could still help them. He had to believe there was a way out of this….

‘Marsac?’ Athos cut into his thoughts. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Hm? Fine. I’m fine.’ Marsac nodded. ‘I’ll find them, don’t worry.’

* * *

It was raining by the time Athos had ridden the old horse back down to the city streets. Each movement jolted his wound, and he could feel the blood in his shirts now, saturating them.

He spotted an apothecary down a side street and quickly dismounted. Pushing opening the door he looked around, at the array of materials on the shelves.

He sighed, narrowing his eyes. He needed bandages, of course, and some sort of balm, or lotion to apply to his skin. It had been centuries since he had last needed materials like this.

After a few more seconds of staring listlessly at the shelves, he ended up just swiping his arm along the bandages and bottles of balm into his other arm, and carried them to the wooden counter, where a man sullenly told him the cost and pushed his purchases into a sack and handed them to him.

Stepping back outside in the rain, he looked round to find somewhere he could sit to sort himself out. He didn’t want to go back to the mine and do it- he didn’t think d’Artagnan’s already nervous sensibilities could take any more grave news, and Marsac would probably be next to useless in assisting him.

After a few minutes of awkwardly trying to reach around to apply to balm he very nearly ended up throwing it into a muddy puddle. Frustration gnawed at him, making him angry.

‘Stupid little…’ he growled, before looking up as a figure approached him, concern in her eyes as she shielded her face against the rain.

‘Excuse me, are you alright?’ She asked.

‘Perfectly fine. Thank you.’ Athos replied gruffly, not looking for company.

‘Oh, well that’s good. It just that, to me, it looks like you were about to throw those bandages right into the street just then!’ The woman relied, quick as a whip.

Athos snorted, before shrugging. ‘I…I’m not used to looking after my wounds, is all.’

‘Do you normally have a woman to help, is that it?’

‘Not quite.’ Athos snorted again. ‘I’m just…usually very careful.’

The woman laughed at her words, shaking her head. ‘Do you need my help? I live across the street, I could bandage you up?’

‘A pretty woman like you, surely you’d have a husband who would object to having me in his home with his love?’

‘My husband is away.’ The woman sucked in a breath. ‘Unless you’d rather bleed to death out here in the rain?’

‘Well, when you put it like that- please lead the way!’ Athos stood up, trying to ignore the way his head swam. He held out a hand. ‘Call me Athos,’ he introduced himself.

The woman took it, her gloved hand warm in his. ‘My name is Constance.’ She smiled, before walking ahead, leading the way to her home.

* * *

The fire crackling in the hearth was very welcome, as was the bowl of soup Constance had kindly given him as she readied herself to clean out Athos’ wound.

‘Sutures would be better, but I am no seamstress for skin,’ she muttered, frowning at the wound. ‘Bandages will have to do.’

‘Thank you,’ Athos said, warming his hands by the fire. ‘I am forever indebted to your kindness.’

‘Don’t be silly, I will always help a person who needs it.’ Constance waved away the thanks, head bent close to Athos’ shoulder to get a proper look.

Athos resisted an urge to look round. ‘You haven’t asked.’ He observed, moving his head to motion his wound.

‘It’s not my business.’ Constance replied as she washed the wound with tepid water. ‘You needed help- what does it matter why? Tonight I will put this on your wound, and tomorrow you help someone else in need.’ She sighed as she now gently applied a balm to the wound. ‘We’re not meant to be alone.’ She added solemnly.

Athos let her words hang in the air. She was right. The warmness of the room made his eyes droop, yet he knew he could not sleep while Aramis and Porthos were out there, alone and captured.

He stood as soon as Constance has helped him put on his clothes.

‘That’s going to need cleaning again tomorrow.’ She told him, before bundling up a loaf of bread and some cheese in a cloth and handing it to him. ‘For the road.’ She smiled as she handed it to him.

He took it gratefully, holding it close to him. ‘You’re a very special woman, Constance.’ He told her, meaning very word. ‘I do not think you even know how special.’

‘You don’t even know me…’ Constance shot back, cheeks reddening slightly.

‘Oh, I’m a very good judge of character.’ Athos assured her with a nod, before walking to the door. ‘You take care.’ He called back.

‘And you, Athos.’ Constance replied as she joined him at the door. She watched him walk away, head bowed against the wind and rain, before closing the door with a thud.


	9. Chapter 9

The fire was dying in the hearth when Marsac awoke in the early hours of the next morning. He cast an eye over the fire, to where Athos was sleeping upright against a large rock; his hat was pulled down over his eyes, but Marsac knew from his breathing that he was still in deep slumber.

Sitting up gingerly he looked across to d’Artagnan- the younger man too was fast asleep, curled in on himself as he cocooned in a pile of thick covers. His eyes moved fitfully behind the lids, as if he were in the midst of a dream.

Athos had come back late that night, his face pinched with worry, Marsac had assumed. He and the lad had left him well alone- Marsac knee Athos would not want to be disturbed; he had lived and worked alongside him for long enough now to know when he exuded “go away” vibes. D’Artagnan was new, but even so he had seemed to have sensed the shift in attitude, the way Athos had kept himself to the side.

Now he was up, he quickly dressed and crossed to the other side of the cave system, heart already thudding in his chest.

The ride back to the safe house was short, yet filled with anxiety- he kept looking over his shoulder, expecting men to come charging out of the bushes any second.

Shame filled him- Aramis and Porthos should not have been taken. That was not part of the agreement at all.

He dismounted as he came into the graveyard, the watery morning light illuminating the dew on the long, unkempt grass as he trudged over to the main church; he could see the door was slightly ajar, and the orange glow of a candle could be seen through the stained glass window at the side of the building.

The air was cold as he crept down the nave, to the hunched figure he could see at the front.

He sat himself at the very end of the pew, and after a few seconds he turned his head- Rochefort was praying, his hands clasped in front of him as he muttered under his breath.

A few weighted seconds passed. ‘You shouldn’t have taken them. You should have done as we agreed.’

Rochefort smiled against the skin of his hands, before crossing himself and finally sitting up. He splayed out his hands in front of him, his face a picture of innocence. ‘I got too eager. I am sorry, I know those men are your friends, but I had to see for myself, I-‘

‘That’s not what we agreed!’ Marsac’s panicked voice echoed around the empty church. Rochefort sat back, considering.

‘I said I could help you. I know what we agreed- I saw the opportunity and took it. Besides-‘ he sighed, shrugging as he fiddled with the clasp to his coat. ‘Your friends are being well cared for, and I am holding up my part of the bargain. Now I need you to fulfil your side.’

‘W-what do you mean?’ Marsac frowned.

‘I told you I need to study you to help you.’

‘You have Aramis and Porthos- they are older than me, they can-‘

‘No. I need all of you. I am aware that there are more than just you three.’

Marsac swallowed. ‘There is no one else, just us.’

Rochefort smiled, his chuckle rumbling down the pew like fetid wind. ‘Come now. Do you really think I wouldn’t have done my own research?’

‘I..I..’ Marsac was lost for words.

‘There are five of you in total. Do not deny it, for I have been told by a very reliable source. I want all of you- what would be the point in studying only a small amount of the full group? You may have something that the others may not have, we don’t know, do we?’

He stood as Marsac considered his words. ‘Aramis and Porthos.’ He finally said as Rochefort came to stand beside him, so close that Marsac also had to stand to get out of his way. ‘They are safe?’

‘My friend, you must trust me.’ Rochefort put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I only want to help.’

Marsac swallowed nervously again, before slowly nodding. ‘Alright, I’ll bring the other two. Give me an hour.’

‘Excellent.’ Rochefort smiled, bowing slightly as Marsac turned to walk back up the nave. ‘I’ll be here. You’re doing the right thing.’ He called after him, until Marsac was swallowed by the shadows.

* * *

Athos was up by the time he came back- he and d’Artagnan were preparing a light breakfast as he finally made his way back to the mine, breathless and shaky.

‘Where have you been?’ Athos called as he took a bite of hard cheese, before washing it down with some water as Marsac sat down.

‘Couldn’t sleep.’ Marsac shrugged as he pulled a pitcher of water towards him and drank from it heavily. ‘I went back into the surrounding villagers like you said, to ask if anyone had seen admins or Porthos.’

This piqued both men’s interest, for they both sat up and stared across at him. ‘Have you found them?’ D’Artagnan asked, appetite now forgotten.

‘I found out who had taken them.’ Marsac nodded, heart thudding in his chest as he turned to lie to Athos. ‘I managed to arrange a meeting, at the old church. Fitting, don’t you think?’

‘When is this meeting?’ Athos asked, already standing and getting ready.

‘As soon as we are able to get there.’ Marsac nodding, rising too. He tensed as Athos strode towards him, his expression hard, before relaxing slightly as his face spread into a smile and he clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Good work!’ Athos nodded, relief flooding through his chest. ‘Knew I could rely on you.’

‘Yes…’ Marsac’s voice trailed off as the three of them gathered the rest of their things and prepared to ride back into the village.

* * *

A heavy feeling, weighty and uncomfortable, settled into d’Artagnan’s stomach as they rode back into the city limits, to where Aramis and Athos had been taken.

Anxiety bubbled up, fizzing in his hands and legs as he sat looking out the window as they rumbled down the stony path towards the church.

‘You alright?’ Marsac called from his seat driving the horse. D’Artagnan didn’t answer- he didn’t know how to articulate his feelings, so he didn’t try.

Athos was stoic and silent in a way that made him feel nervous- d’Artagnan couldn’t shake the image of the other man, blood stained and breathing heavily, that night outside the church.

Finally the cart stopped, and the three of them got out. Marsac delved his hand into the weapons bag, pulling out a gun after a few seconds and handing it to Athos, who pushed it into his pocket. ‘It’s loaded.’ He added as he turned away.

‘Go and scout out the front.’ He ordered, eyes on the church.

Nodding once, Marsac did as he was told, leaving Athos and d’Artagnan alone. Pulling out another gun, Athos pushed it into d’Artagnan’s hands.

He looked down at the gun, before looking back up as Athos put a knife in his pocket. ‘I can’t do this.’ He muttered after a while, voice wavering.

‘Yes you can, lad.’ Athos assured him. He would get used to it soon enough.

D’Artagnan shook his head, before pushing the gun back into Athos’ hands. ‘I mean I’m not doing it.’ He replied, voice unwavering as he stared at Athos.

‘You’re one of us now.’ Athos stared back, face set. ‘We would do exactly the same for you.’

D’Artagnan scoffed. ‘I never had a choice in this!’

‘Do you think any of us had a choice?’ Athos retorted, before forcing himself to calm down. ‘There isn’t a choice, lad.’

‘I saw what you did in the church, all those bodies…’ d’Artagnan swallowed, licking dry lips before continuing. ‘Is that supposed to be me?’

‘You’ll learn to live with it. You’ve got to feel it.’

‘So this is supposed to be what we do, and yet we don’t even know why?’ D’Artagnan’s voice was incredulous.

Athos sighed. ‘Do you really think knowing all the answers will help you sleep better at night?’

D’Artagnan swallowed hard, blinking up at the sky. ‘My family. I still have time with them- it will be years before they notice I’m not ageing, and then I can leave…but I still have time with them.’

Athos looked over to him, at the young boy standing opposite him. Who was he to stand in his way. He stepped away from the cart, giving him a final nod.

‘Take the cart. Ditch it before you hit your village.’ He muttered, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the gun Marsac had given him. ‘Take this. Throw it away once you have no more need for it.’

D’Artagnan nodded, smiling a genuine smile as Athos stepped away. ‘Thank you. Are you going to be alright?’

Athos snorted at that, looking back up the church. ‘Always.’ He eventually replied. ‘Now go.’

D’Artagnan didn’t need telling twice. With a final nod to Athos he climbed into the driving seat and manoeuvred then cart around.

As he watched him go, Athos felt a pang on envy. It was quickly covered with a determined panicked feeling as he turned and made to follow Marsac up towards the church.

* * *

After only a couple of minute’s driving, d’Artagnan had to stop. He sighed hard, unease flowing through him. He couldn’t explain it, but something about the way he and Athos had parted made him feel uncomfortable, like something wasn’t right.

He turned off into an alley, intending to stop the cart and search in the back for a bottle of wine to nurse on the journey home- he frowned as his coat banged against the wooden side of the car as he hopped off; Athos’ gun hit the wood, making a horrible sound.

He fished it out and made to stow it in his belt- he couldn’t stand having a weapon in his pocket, even in the relatively short time he had actually used and kept a gun like this.

He stopped as he felt the gun in his palm; frowning, he weighed it in his hands. It felt too light to be primed and ready for an assault, like the way Marsac had given it to Athos.

He twisted the barrel and peered inside- the heavy feeling returned tenfold, now making him feel sick to his stomach. The barrel was empty.

He looked back up, to the road from where he had just come. Athos was in danger, he knew it.

He swallowed hard, yet he knew what he had to do. Untethering the horse from the cart he mounted the horse, turning the reigns and directing it to go back, to the church he had just left.

* * *

Gun drawn, Athos carefully made his way into the building. Feeling a horrible sense of dejavu he made sure he covered all areas- he turned as he saw movement to his right.

‘D’Artagnan?’ Marsac mouthed from the other side of the church.

Athos shook his head, not needing to explain- he waited for Marsac to move closer, and together the two of them advanced, guns drawn.

A shadow crossed their view. A man stepped into the frame, unarmed and with hands raised in a way that showed he meant no harm.

‘Where are they?’ Athos called, voice dark. He was unwilling to entertain this longer than necessary. ‘Where are Aramis and Porthos?’

‘Do not be alarmed. They are safe.’ The man replied, voice echoing. ‘Just like I told your friend here.’

‘My friend?’ Athos frowned, turning to his left- he didn’t have time to react as Marsac lifted his weapon and fired. The noise was deafening, the pain almost blinding as Athos hit the stone hard, clutching his side.

‘Marsac!’ He yelled out, pain encapsulating him as he felt warm blood flow from the wound. ‘Why Marsac!?’ He grunted, before trying to throw himself to the side as Marsac moved to his side, thick iron handcuffs in his hands.

‘No…stop…’ he grunted, bucking away as he was dragged upright into a sitting position. White hot pain took his breath away. ‘Why, Marsac?!’ He yelled again, anger mingling with the pain. ‘I trusted you!’ He threw out, struggling in his grasp. ‘We all trusted you!’

‘Calm down Athos-‘ Marsac grunted, barely avoiding Athos’ head as he tried to headbutt him. ‘This man can help us!’

As the words rang out, Athos finally understood. ‘Oh Marsac.’ He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘What have you done….’

‘He-he said he has people who can help us!’ He looked up to Rochefort, who was watching the scene with interest. ‘If they can find out what stops us dying, they could turn it off!’

‘Oh Marsac…’ Athos repeated, shaking his head as he groaned, long and low in his throat. ‘Not like this….not like this….’

Rochefort stepped forwards as Marsac finally stood, leaving Athos slumped on the floor. ‘I do not intend to harm you.’ He said, voice silky smooth. ‘Like your friend said- I believe we can do great things together, I-‘

‘-wait.’ Marsac suddenly spoke up, his eyes wide as he realised something. ‘You haven’t stopped bleeding.’

It was true- Athos looked down as blood continued to dribble down his shirt, pooling down onto the flagstone floor. ‘You should’ve healed by now!’ Marsac dropped down, using his fist to plug the wound. Athos, his hands bound, did not protest- he merely hissed out in pain as Marsac, his breathing suddenly skittery with panic, did his best to apply pressure to the wound.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ He cried, eyes wide as Athos turned to look at him.

‘It w-wouldn’t have changed anything.’ Athos replied simply, voice strained.

Marsac looked up. ‘He needs help!’ He shouted to Rochefort, who resisted the urge to roll his eyes- he clapped loudly, and seconds later a group of men entered the church.

‘Take them to where the others are. Make haste- this one looks like he won’t last much longer.’

Marsac shook his head, eyes wide, as he was grasped by each arm and hauled to his feet. ‘He needs medical care!’ He shouted as he was pulled away.

‘He will get it, I assure you.’ Rochefort replied, looking down at Athos as he too was dragged down the nave, a blood trail winding its way after him.

As the two of them were put into a waiting cart, d’Artagnan was watching. Eyes narrowed, he fisted the reigns of his horse- he moved off as the cart started to rumble down the streets, following the cart as it made it slow way towards its next destination.


	10. Chapter 10

Aramis sighed unhappily as the cart’s wheel dipped into a deep rivet in the road, causing him to hit his head on the wooden slats. ‘How much further?’ he asked as he rubbed the side of his head, raising his eyebrows at the guards sat opposite him and Porthos. They stared back under their hoods, unwavering and silent as the cart trundled on.

‘Suit yourselves…’ Aramis shrugged, turning to Porthos and mock-sighing. ‘Strong and silent types, it seems…’

Porthos nodded his agreement, a smile tugging at his lips despite the danger they were in. The cart was windowless so neither of them could see where it was leading them. The blond man who had greeted them earlier did not seem too friendly, so he could safely assume two distinct possibilities- a dark, dingy dungeon, or an open field with a gallows already set up.

 _What did they want with them?_ He didn’t see any fear in the man’s eyes- on the contrary, he looked like all his yuletides had come at once.

He wondered where Marsac, Athos and d’Artagnan were- he hoped Marsac was alright; his stomach was in a horrible state when they had been captured. He hoped Athos had got him out safely.

They looked to the door as the cart slowed and finally stopped. Looking at each other, a silent understanding passed between them- as they were sitting so close, Aramis was able to reach out and clasp Porthos’ hand. Squeezing lightly, the two of them smiled at each other comfortingly as the men grasped them again and they were pushed out and into the scant evening light.

Porthos looked up sourly at the impossibly large stonework of the vast building ahead of them- so, dark dingy dungeon it was, then.

‘Welcome to the Bastille.’ A voice told them sardonically to a ripple of laughter.

‘Take them down to the dungeons,’ another of the men grunted- the two of them allowed themselves to be manhandled down a small grassy slope and through a large brick door.

The smell was unmistakable, yet neither of them turned their noses up- they had been alive so long they had seen much worse before.

Aramis looked across the narrow corridor with concern as he heard men, women and children cry out in pain and distress; looking through the bars of a cell he saw an older woman, her greasy scraggly white hair tucked under a shawl as she stared out at them, her wizened hands tightly grasping the iron bars.

Swallowing, Aramis allowed himself to be dragged away. He hated humanity sometimes- the older he lived, the more he detested how they treated each other. He had hoped that it would get better, that people would now be more understanding as they learned from their mistakes, but he was always surprised as he was proved wrong time and time again.

They were hauled down to the bowels of the dungeons, to what seemed like the last room before a descent into hell itself. Down here the walls were damp and green with moss- waterdrops plinked in the relative silence than that of the upper cells.

They were finally pushed into a great, wide room, lined with impressive brickwork and stone carvings. A man was standing to the side, next to a long low table. Porthos looked around, at the vast array of implements and instruments dotted around the room.

They all stood staring at each other for a few seconds, until they heard rapid footfalls behind them- The blond man from before was back, striding into the dungeon as if he owned the place.

‘Pierre, I hope you are well?’ he asked the dungeon master smoothly. Pierre nodded at him, yet said nothing- the blond man smiled easily as if he hadn’t even heard him.

He tuned to Aramis and Porthos, who were looking across at him with unease- the screams from upstairs now echoed down to them, making the hairs on Porthos’ arms and the back of his neck stand up. ‘I am so sorry- I don’t believe I have introduced myself.’ He said, stepping closer.

‘Take these manacles off us and we can have a proper introduction.’ Porthos grunted, voice low and dangerous.

The man smiled, yet made no effort to accommodate him. ‘My name is Rochefort- as I said before I have been made aware of your talents,’ he started, pacing up and down in front of them. Aramis tensed his muscles, wondering how quickly he could subdue the men holding him and Porthos; dirty fingernails dug into his arms, making his fingers go numb.

‘I believe that together we can work to learn more about your abilities- they are certainly unique. Once we find out what keeps you from dying- well, think of the possibilities!’ he looked across to Aramis, who scoffed lightly and shook his head.

‘Believe me, we have been trying to work it out for ourselves.’ He said, heart starting to thud in his chest. How did he know about their abilities?

‘But I believe, with Pierre here, we can actually find out what makes you tick- then, the possibilities are endless….’ Rochefort clasped his hands together. ‘Think of it- people no longer die of needless illnesses. Armies of never-dying men can be created; monarchies can live forever...’

‘So do you want to help mankind, or destroy it?’ Porthos snorted. ‘It’s not as simple as that!’

‘But how are we to know unless we test it?’ Rochefort reasoned, shrugging.

‘What’s in it for you?’ Aramis frowned, unease rippling through him. ‘You’re not a man of the people- I’ve only met you for five minutes and I know that.’

‘Well- no work can be complete without some balance….’ Rochefort conceded, looking to Pierre before taking a step closer to Aramis and Porthos. ‘My role is to find out the answer to one fundamental question- how do we push the scientific frontiers whilst also turning a little…profit?’

He smiled at them as he finished- Porthos smiled back, before suddenly throwing his head forwards, cracking his skull against the soft meaty part of Rochefort’s nose; he staggered backwards with a yelp of surprise and pain, blood seeping through his fingers. 'There's your balance!' Porthos growled as he was pulled backwards.

‘Sir-‘ one of the men stepped forwards, hands out to steady him- Rochefort growled low in his throat as he shook his head and pushed the concern away. He straightened up, sniffing up the blood as he pressed a handkerchief to his nose.

There was silence for a few weighted seconds- suddenly Rochefort staggered to the table Pierre was standing next to and had been impassively viewing the scene, like a dog waiting to go in for the kill.

Rochefort picked up the first thing he could lay he hands on-a small-handled dagger, crusted with blood. ‘I’ve been told of your abilities, but I would prefer my evidence to be indisputable...’ he growled, anger dripping from his tongue now- stepping forwards he raised the knife.

‘No!’ Aramis cried as Rochefort began stabbing every inch of bare skin of Porthos he could find- groaning out in pain Porthos squeezed his eyes shut as he was stabbed again and again, in the neck, in his face, in his back…

‘Stop!’ Aramis yelled, struggling against his captors to reach Porthos as Rochefort finally stopped stabbing- stepping backwards, he threw the knife to the ground and motioned for Pierre to come and stand beside him.

‘What do you see?’

Pierre stared for a while- his eyes widened a little as he watched as Porthos’ body, now slit and stabbed, started to heal the wounds, the blood now congealing as the wounds papered themselves over. He watched as Aramis, breathing heavily with exertion, still fought to be at Porthos’ side.

He smiled, showing grey, mottled teeth. ‘All the riches and land I can possibly own.’

‘Good.’ Rochefort nodded once, wiping the last of the blood from his face. He made to move to the door.

‘You owe me more.’ Pierre held out his hand, catching him in the chest to stop him.

‘And you’ll get them.’ Rochefort sneered, moving away. ‘Keep me informed of all progress- if you kill them and they stay dead, our agreement is null and void, remember that!’

‘No chance of that, I don’t think….’ Pierre smiled over at the two of them. Aramis’ heart sank as the men suddenly released their holds on them both.

Before they could move freely or even think of formulating any plan of escape Pierre motioned to the men behind them- a blinding, sickening pain hit Porthos in the back of the head, making him see stars as he sank to the wet, stinking dungeon floor.

Aramis went down next- before the darkness claimed him he saw Rochefort exit the room, slamming the large door shut behind him without another word.

* * *

As his mind drifted back from the depths of death for the third time in ten minutes, Aramis seriously started to wonder how much more their bodies could take.

Inhaling deeply, he groaned as his body worked to heal over the gaping wound in his side, sore and stinging- Pierre still held the blade that had caused his demise; he casually held it over his shoulder as he jotted down some notes on a dirty ream of parchment, humming as he went.

‘Porthos…’ he whispered, turning his head on the table he was strapped to, eyes wide as his eyes fell on his lover, who was also strapped onto a table, his hands tethered upwards to expose his bare, blood-stained chest and stomach.

Porthos looked across at him, heart breaking as he watched Aramis’ body repair itself- no matter how many times they psychically died, it killed his soul again and again to watch Aramis endure so much pain.

‘I told you- you only need to torture one of us!’ he growled, flexing his hands and feet to stop the numbness. ‘I can take it all! Leave him alone!’

‘Now where’s the fun in that?’ Pierre replied as he flung his parchment down. He stood back as he surveyed his work. ‘So, three deaths each and no change. That’s stabbings, shootings and garrotting…’ he put a finger to his chin, scratching at the dirty, blood-flecked stubble there.

‘How’s about burning…’ he suddenly grinned, before moving off to gather some equipment.

‘Burning!?’ Aramis felt his mouth go dry at the thought. He looked over to Porthos, who looked just as fearful as he felt.

‘It’ll be alright, Mis….’ He replied softly, despite them both knowing it wouldn’t be. Burning was agonisingly slow and painful. Over the years it was their most feared way of dying- men who burnt others usually did not do it fast.

They lay there in silence as they heard Pierre moving around, before an acrid smell hit their nostrils, and smoke erupted from the area.

They looked across at each other- Aramis wished he could grasp Porthos’ hand again as the smoke came closer, followed by the incessant sound of something fizzing and crackling ominously in the darkness of the room- Instead he stared resolutely ahead at what was to come.

* * *

Aramis awoke first- he turned his head, groaning under his breath as he felt his skin heal itself- the mottled, blistered skin mended itself as fast as ever, with black, charred flesh turning to pink fresh skin in a matter of seconds. Pierre watched with interest, scribbling on his now crowded parchment- he looked up as there was a knock on the door. Aramis watched as he left them, closing the door behind him.

He let out a pained, panicked sigh, long and low- his eyes fell on Porthos, his eyes still shut. His skin, almost burnt beyond recognition, was still smoking slightly, making Aramis feel sick.

He watched for a few seconds, panic rising as Porthos did not stir- a few seconds later and he finally inhaled, coughing in pain as his skin healed.

Closing his eyes in relief, Aramis licked dry lips as he spoke. ‘As much as I love watching you sleep, I am so glad you’re awake.’

In his weakened state, all Porthos could do was smile slightly as he worked to mend his broken body. ‘Bed head?’ he whispered when he was finally able to speak.

Aramis let out a laugh at that. ‘Nicely tousled…’ he replied, flexing his body as his muscles finally repaired themselves.

‘Do you know, I was thinking about Malta.’ He added, voice light.

‘What time in Malta?’ Porthos asked- his eyes widened as Aramis stared over at him, before comprehension dawned and his face relaxed into a large, knowing smile. ‘Oh, _that_ time in Malta…’

Aramis grinned, before shaking his head. ‘We should go back there.’ He said softly.

‘That would be nice.’ Porthos nodded, before they both looked up sharply as the door to the dungeon banged open with a deafening crash, and two figures were lead into the room, coming to a stop before them.


	11. Chapter 11

‘Athos?’ Aramis moved his head upwards, to peer across the room as the two figures moved into the light, flanked by men on either side. His eyes widened and worry filled his nerves as he saw Athos tense in pain at every movement, his face screwing up and a series of pained moans escaping his lips. Marsac was pulled along behind him, his face a panicked, yet strangely impassive, mask.

‘What happened?’ Porthos called from the side, his own eyes widening as the dungeon-master hurried around fetching more tables for both Athos and Marsac.

‘He’s not healing.’ Marsac eventually answered after a few beats of silence- he growled as he was pushed onto the wooden table, before both he and Athos’ arms where tethered to it. ‘I killed him.’

Aramis turned to their leader, mouth almost falling open as he watched Athos close his eyes in pain- his face was lined and taut, and Aramis felt his mouth turn dry as he looked down, to the gunshot wound to his side.

Before anyone else could speak, they all looked up at the sound of footfalls- Porthos didn’t even need to look up to know it was Rochefort. The man in question strode forward, face set in a smile as he looked down at Marsac and Athos. His smile faltered as he took in the scene.

‘What happened?’ he spat, turning angry eyes to the dungeon master, who shrugged as he collected his equipment once more. ‘He needs to be kept alive at all costs.’

‘Not my area.’ Pierre grunted- he looked up as Rochefort moved towards him, yet no flicker of emotion crossed his face as Rochefort grasped him by the lapel.

‘Make it your area!’ he hissed, spittle flying from his mouth. ‘Do not think I don’t know the roles you play here- long periods of torture would be no use if the subject died within the first few minutes, would they? You have medical knowledge, perhaps more than most physicians in this city.’ He let Pierre go as the man wrenched himself backwards, eye now narrowed.

‘See to it he doesn’t die. If he does, you know what will happen to you, and to your children.’ Pierre looked up at his words, a flicker of emotion passing in his eyes. He looked over to Athos, who was still groaning in pain. ‘He might die even with my help.’

‘You know the rules.’ Rochefort dismissed the words, before stepping back to the four men tethered to the table before him. ‘Something’s changed.’ He muttered, more to himself to anyone else. ‘I need you to find out what.’

He stepped backwards, eyes flicking from one man to the next. His eyes turned back to Aramis as he cleared his throat. ‘All things die.’

A beat of silence. Porthos looked to Rochefort, who had danger lurking in his eyes.

‘What was that?’

‘Everything has to die, Rochefort.’ Aramis spoke, imploring him to see. ‘The only reason Porthos and I haven’t, after everything you’ve done, is that its not our time yet.’ He turned to Athos, who was now being tended to by Pierre. ‘If its now Athos’ time, nothing you can do will stop it.’

Rochefort breathed out a laugh, shaking his head lightly. He moved towards Aramis, who looked across to him, now unafraid. ‘I will carve slices off of you for years if needs be, to get what I want.’ His eyes flicked over to Porthos, who looked murderous at his words. He looked back down to Aramis, ‘your time is coming.’

Aramis smiled at that, yet his words were deadly serious. ‘As is yours.’

The two men stared at each other for a few seconds, each not willing to break the eye contact first- finally Rochefort smiled again and withdrew, looking over to Pierre as he strode to the door. ‘I expect results!’ he yelled, before slamming the dungeon door behind him with a deafening crash.

* * *

d’Artagnan crossed the courtyard to the Bastille, eyes flicking around the crowded area as he tried to figure out a way to get in. As the cart taking Athos and Marsac rode into the great stone building, flanked on all sides by armed guards, he had watched from behind a pillar, nerves in his chest as he watched yet more armed guards close the wrought-iron gate behind them, closing it off from the public. He had to get in somehow.

A laugh, sharp and brittle against his ears, made him turn away- an idea hatched in his brain as he saw it was a lone guard, staggering his way down the road from a tavern, obviously the worse for wear. He sized the man up, then looked down at himself- he would have to do.

With one final look to the closed gates of the Bastille, he steeled himself and turned back to the man, licking his dry lips- he had never done anything like this before, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.

He crossed the path and fell into step behind the drunken man, trying to keep the drum of anxiety from deafening him as the two of them ambled into a quiet alley- as the man turned the corner d’Artagnan reached into his pocket and pulled out the gun Athos had given him; he twisted it in his palm so the stock was at the front and, not giving himself time to stop, swung it at the side of the man’s head as hard as he could. Eyes wide, he leant forwards and caught him as he crumpled with a groan; pulling him against the wall he worked quickly, stripping the man as fast as he could and pulling on the clothes.

Finally he was ready- slamming the dark hat atop his head, he awkwardly did up the buttons to the guard’s black outfit with shaky hands and stepped away, looking back towards the now groaning man with some concern, before steeling himself. Pocketing the man’s gun, he hoped it would be enough; looping the rapier around his belt he felt somewhat more prepared.

As he walked towards the gate he found it was surprisingly easy to get in now- he doffed his hat at the guard, cheeks reddening as the man looked at him like he’d just sprouted a second head. Perhaps he was supposed to punch him in thanks, he thought to himself as he stopped just inside the prison walls, and took a good look around.

Where could they be? Nowhere other people could stumble in on then, he wagered. So, either high up or low down… he settled on low down. He had heard stories of the dungeons deep in the bowels of the Bastille- letting out a long breath he made his way down the long, filthy corridors, one lone candle the only light in the dank spaces.

As he went lower, the air seemed to stagnate- he hoped the others were alright. He turned the last corner, to where he was now sure the others were, and came face to face with three other guards sitting at a wooden table outside a large door.

‘Who are you?’ one of them barked, spitting out a lump of tobacco onto the floor, whilst the others pushed away their plates of food.

d’Artagnan didn’t reply; he merely stood still, staring at the three men as they now stood, looking at him warily.

‘You shouldn’t be down here- Mr Rochefort only gave us permission to be down here…’ one of the other men said, their hands now reaching to the pistols at their sides.

Again d’Artagnan didn’t respond- he reached into his own pocket and pulled out his own gun slowly, letting the men see it was there. A few seconds was all it took for the men to simultaneously raise and fire their weapons. d’Artagnan grunted at three bullets slammed into his body, sending him to the floor, blood pooling around him as he felt the darkness come up to claim him.

The three men frowned as they looked down at the now clearly-dead intruder. ‘Stupid fool.’ One of them scoffed, shaking his head.

‘You would have thought he had a death wish or something!’

The three men laughed at the words, before turning back to pour themselves some more wine- a pained groan caught their ears a few moments later. They looked back, eyes widening in fear as d’Artagnan drew himself upwards, gun already raised and ready; the three men went down in seconds with no time to ready their weapons in return.

Breathing heavily, d’Artagnan moved forwards, wincing as the bullet holes in his body healed themselves as he walked towards the door, wondering what he would find on the other side.


	12. Chapter 12

‘You selfish piece of shit!’ Aramis turned his head to glare at Porthos as he spat the words out, eyes wide and sparkling with anger.

‘Porthos, leave it!’ Aramis called, yet it was no use- he could feel the anger radiating from his lover, coming past him in waves and heading straight for Marsac, who stared back, eyes glassy.

He turned to Athos, who had yet to utter a single word- his white face was like a mask as he stared upwards into the ceiling, mouth set in a creased line as Pierre finished his handiwork and stepped away into the shadows behind them.

‘What do you know about the weight of all these years alone?’ Marsac’s words hung heavy in the air, until Porthos shattered the silence with a loud scoff, shaking his head tersely.

‘You’re a very pathetic man, Marsac!’ he retorted, lips curled into a snarl.

‘Porthos, stop.’ Aramis’s voice was softer now. ‘Please.’

Now it was Marsac’s turn to scoff- ‘You and Aramis always had each other, right?’ he spoke into the silence, voice wavering with emotion that none of them could understand. ‘All we had…’ he motioned to Athos, who made no sound or offered any understanding he had even heard the words. ‘Was our grief.’

‘Well, now you’re going to have even more!’ Porthos hissed, unable to help himself- he had been forced to watch Aramis be killed in the most inhuman ways, over and over again, and Marsac talked of grief?

Suddenly all four of them looked towards the door as they heard a cacophony of gun-shots, followed a few seconds later by three more rapid shots. Moments later the door opened and d’Artagnan all but fell through it, breathing heavily, as his wounds continued to heal.

‘d’Artagnan?’ Marsac frowned, eyes creased as they watched the younger man venture into the room, looking around the gloomy space with wide, pained eyes.

‘Behind you!’ Aramis called- he winced as d’Artagnan took another shot to the shoulder from behind; he grunted, pivoted on his heels, and returned the shot all in one fluid movement, before closing the heavy door behind him and scrabbling for the key to buy them some more time.

‘Look out!’ Porthos suddenly yelled- d’Artagnan, dropping the key, now barely had time to move out of the way as Pierre came darting out from the shadows, a dagger in his hands; he stepped backwards and punched the man as hard as he could in the temple; the bigger man went down without even a whimper, slumping to the dirty floor at his feet.

Seconds later and he was at Athos’ side- he looked over the man, at the bloodied rags littering the floor, at the clumsy stitching of the wound, and finally at Athos’ pained face, now he was finally looking at him.

d’Artagnan swallowed hard, yet kept his panic down as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the gun, pressing it into Athos’ hand. He frowned as the man let his hand fall limp, unwilling to take the gun. ‘Athos, take it.’ He nodded, the panic now rising as Athos looked back up the ceiling with a slow shake of his head. He was beaten, broken, d’Artagnan realised with a jolt.

Becoming mortal had changed him- how could it not? He steeled himself, taking a deep breath in, before firmly pushing the gun into Athos’ palm and closing his hand around the other man’s, forcing him to hold it. ‘We can’t do this without you.’ A few weighted seconds passed- seconds d’Artagnan knew they could not waste. The other guards would know what happened by now; they would be surrounding them any second.

‘Immortal or not- you made a promise.’ He muttered, voice now hard as Athos looked at him. ‘Whatever it takes.’

This seemed to awaken something in the older man; his eyes widened with some dawning comprehension, and colour seemed to return to his cheeks. d’Artagnan allowed himself a small smile as he worked to undo the thick leather straps tethering Athos to the table.

As soon as one arm was free, however, there was a loud bang at the door; seconds later Athos, now wielding the gun he had been given, expertly saw off the attack by three guards who had run down and burst through the door. d’Artagnan winced at the noise by his ear, but worked quickly to untie the rest of the Athos’ binds, before the older man heaved himself off the table and into a standing position. ‘You came back.’ He turned to d’Artagnan, breathing heavily.

‘Of course I did.’ d’Artagnan replied with a nod. ‘We’re family now.’ He added, before turning to Marsac, who shook his head.

‘No, just leave me here.’ He muttered, turning away. d’Artagnan shook his head at his words, even though he was quite tempted to do so. ‘No man left behind.’ He said instead as he worked to undo the binds.

Behind them, as Athos worked to undo the straps on Aramis’ arms, Porthos scoffed once more, his anger still not abating. ‘Well there’s always a first time! He’s nothing but a traitor and a murderer, he-‘

‘Stop-‘ Athos growled, voice hard and brisk as he came to Porthos’ side to undo his straps. Porthos fell silent immediately, yet looked up reproachfully as Athos softened his tone. ‘This is not the time for it.’

The two men looked at each other before Athos moved off, stooping down to collect the weapons from the dead guards. He turned to Marsac, who, despite now being free, still lay on the wooden table, unmoving.

‘We don’t get a say in when it ends, we never have.’ He muttered as he handed out the guns to the others. ‘But we can control how we live.’ He stepped closer to Marsac now, gun in hand. ‘And to be honest, Marsac- you and I? We’ve been doing a bad job of it.’ He now held out the gun, eyes narrowed as the two men stared at each other.

‘Now get up.’

Marsac sighed, but seconds later he pulled himself up and grasped the gun- Athos nodded and turned away, now all of them ready for what was to come.

‘Athos?’ Aramis’ voice permeated the sudden silence as they waited for the inevitable. They both looked down at the bloodied mess that was Athos’ shirt; Athos pulled it up, hissing in pain, to peer at the puckered wound underneath. He was grateful that he could not feel a lot of pain and could still move about almost as normal; perhaps he still had a modicum of immortality still flowing through his veins?

‘Are you sure?’ The question was heavily weighted.

‘This changes nothing.’ Athos answered resolutely. ‘We walk out of here like always. Together.’

He took a deep breath as four pairs of eyes met his own. ‘Now lets go and get Rochefort.’

* * *

Rochefort had been unable to practise his normal duties since learning of the immortals, so had taken to lounging in the upper rooms of the bastille, in the office of keeper of the prison, whom he had banished to a lower floor. From his vantage point he could see most of the city laid out beneath him, now tantalisingly ripe for the taking.

He was loathe to allow guards in his rooms when he occupied them- he preferred them to wait outside, unseen and unheard of. However, he had taken to having a few select guards in his rooms the last day or two, on account of the ‘guests’ far below him. He eyed up the biggest of them, a chap with cropped dark hair who didn’t speak much, yet he could tell from his demeanour that he was more than handy with his fists and any weapon that he could lay his hands to- Keane, he vaguely remembered from the recesses of his mind. He had come to him with generous recommendations-he was a formidable fighter, and came with a rather terrifying reputation.

He was just about to pour himself a large goblet of wine when there was a loud scurrying noise as someone scampered up the stone steps in a panic and flew through the door.

‘They’ve escaped!’ a young guard cried, eyes wide and breathing heavily as he pointed back down the steps from where he had come. ‘Another one came and rescued them!’

Rochefort sat back, anger coursing through him- he looked up to his guards, and at Keane in particular. ‘Go and bring them back.’ He ordered, sighing deeply as Keane nodded and ushered the other guards out. He would stay here for now, hoping they didn’t think to come up here to look for him.

* * *

They were on them almost as soon as they opened the door- Athos was at the back of the group, heavily flanked on both sides by d’Artagnan and Marsac. Porthos and Aramis led from the front, expertly wielding their guns as they dropped the men coming into the narrow corridor.

Aramis grunted as a bullet slammed into his shoulder, flinging his arm back before he wrenched himself forwards and dropped down to one knee, allowing Porthos to aim and fire above his head, sending the man backwards with a guttural cry.

‘To your left!’ Marsac called as they reached the end of the corridor and into a wider hallway- Athos nodded and turned, sending off a shot; seconds later d’Artagnan moved in front of him, grunting in pain as a bullet hit his shoulder instead of Athos’ chest. They looked at each other in the few seconds it took for the wound to heal, an unspoken thanks passing between them, before they moved off, tight together, guns drawn once more.

Porthos didn’t know how so many men could fit in the comparatively small space- as he dispatched another man he was almost glad when the room widened, giving them all more space to manoeuvre. They all looked as Athos let out a sharp whistle, letting them know they should turn right, into another room that held the stairs to up another level.

‘Ready?’ Marsac breathed- he looked down to where Athos was kneeling, his eyes shut and his face lined with pain as he held his wound tightly, breathing heavily.

‘Athos?’

‘I’m ready. Lets go.’ Athos replied- seconds later, however, they all looked behind them as a grenade, spitting and crackling, rolled into view. As it exploded they all threw themselves backwards, but it was too late- Aramis and Porthos took the full blast, sending them backwards in a plume of white dust.

Groaning, Marsac pulled Athos forwards, followed closely by d’Artagnan- they had to get out of here, to get Rochefort before he escaped. ‘Porthos, Aramis, we’re moving out!’ he called, to no response. They would be behind them soon, he reasoned, as the three of them moved off up the stairs.

Keane stepped into the room, eyes narrowed as he searched the room for bodies- ‘there.’ He called to another guard, before they all looked up as they heard footfalls going up the steps. ‘Get them- I’ll deal with these two.’ He ordered, before crossing the room, avoiding the brickwork that had been blasted around, towards Aramis and Porthos.

Aramis awoke first, coughing painfully into the dust of the room as life hurtled back into his system as he moved to kneeling on all fours- Keane stepped forwards, kicking Aramis hard in the face, sending him onto his back, groaning. He moved back up again, willing himself forwards to get to Porthos- he groaned again as Keane kicked him once more, now hard in the stomach and ribs.

Coughing hard Aramis now drew himself up as Keane went to kick him again. Throwing himself to the side he grasped Keane around them middle and used his body weight to throw him to the floor, landing a punch on his jaw as he did so. The two men grappled for a few seconds, before Keane sat up and, as Aramis brought his fist down once more, caught the hand in his grasp and moved Aramis upwards, before kicking him hard in the stomach, sending him careering upwards and then down onto the floor, winded.

Porthos sat up groggily as he heard Aramis moan in pain; growling in anger he moved forwards, landing a punch to Keane’s head, slamming it to the floor with a dull thud- Keane seemed to be ready for this, however; he sat up with ease and, eyes glinting, punched Porthos in the face before following it up with a jab in his throat. Porthos’ eyes widened as he clutched his throat, retching and gurgling for breath.

Aramis pulled himself forward and grasped Keane’s fist and threw him backwards, but it seemed like the man was as super-human as they were; twisting around Keane punched Aramis in the chest before swivelling him onto his back. Pinioning his body beneath his, he punched Aramis one last time in the stomach- as Aramis’ mouth opened to yelp out in pain Keane reached onto the floor to grasp a pistol-

‘No!’ Porthos yelled, but it was too late- Keane placed the barrel in Aramis’ open mouth and fired, the noise deafening as all fighting ceased.

‘No, Aramis!’ Porthos cried- Keane stepped backwards as Porthos crawled to Aramis’ side, before turning and running up the stairs after the other three.

* * *

‘Where are Aramis and Porthos?’ d’Artagnan yelled as he avoided yet another musket ball, which instead imbedded itself in the wall beside him.

‘They’ll be here in a minute,’ Marsac assured him, moving in front of Athos as another man joined the fray; he groaned as two bullets slammed into his back, before pushing Athos forward and into another room. Slamming the door behind them he took in a pained breath as the musket balls dropped out.

‘We’re surrounded.’ He gasped, shaking his head as he and d’Artagnan moved to re-load their own pistols. They would soon run out of ammunition, Marsac knew.

Athos, meanwhile, was looking around the room, an idea dawning. ‘Lad, give me your rapier.’ He muttered to d’Artagnan, who frowned but passed him the sword all the same.

‘It’s too close quarters, you’ll never be able to-‘ his words died in his throat as Athos ignored him and stepped forwards, towards the door.

‘He knows what he’s doing,’ Marsac said in way of explanation as Athos took in a steadying breath and slowly opened the door a crack. Men were filing down the corridor, obviously under the impression that they had moved into another room.

Soon, he was ready- opening the door fully, Athos balanced the handle of the rapier expertly in his hands, like welcoming back an old friend. None of the men saw the attack coming.

Blood sprayed onto Athos’ face as he sliced into the men; they dropped like flies at his feet- he strengthened his grip as he surged forwards, not giving any of them the time to load their guns or even raise their arms too far upwards.

As the last man in the corridor fell Athos took in a deep breath as plain bloomed in his side- with a shaky hand he drew the flat of his blade along the back of one of the slain men, cleaning the steel as Marsac and d’Artagnan moved to join him.

* * *

Eyed wide, Porthos cradled Aramis’ head, mouth agape as he looked down at the utter depravity of Keane’s act. Blood and brain matter littered the ground between them, and for a few seconds all Porthos could do was stare down at his lover, willing him to wake up. Images of Aramis not waking up, of being left in this world alone, forced their way into his brain. It had happened to Athos, why not Aramis?

Seconds later, as always, life returned to him; Aramis’ hands immediately curled around Porthos’ forearms as his body worked to mend the damage to his brain and skull. Porthos closed his eyes in relief as the warm hands around his arms clutched at him tighter as he moved to caress a shaky hand down Aramis’ face. Moments later and Aramis twisted, back to business- ‘Let’s go. Athos.’ He nodded to Porthos, who returned the nod as they both stood, readying themselves as they made their way up the stairs to find Rochefort.


	13. Chapter 13

‘Where do we go now?’ Marsac breathed as Athos stepped back from the carnage, clutching his stomach with a barely concealed wince of pain.

‘He has to be here somewhere.’ d’Artagnan muttered, looking around the now desolate area- all the men had seemed to have gone; he didn’t know whether that was because they had exhausted their numbers, or they had been called away to protect Rochefort.

Athos breathed in heavily, trying to push down the nausea he felt with every step- ‘Go back down the corridor, make sure we’re not being followed.’ He muttered, before walking off, quietly ducking down behind a wall.

The other two did as they were told, leaving Athos to creep forwards- he turned as he heard movement ahead of him, in yet another dank, cold corridor. God he hated dungeons.

He moved through the door, hands once again laced tightly around the hilt of his rapier- he would have preferred a sturdier blade, but this would have to do. Creeping closer to the guard, himself heavily armed, he soon found that armed combat would not be needed- as he stepped closer to him, arms raised, the man, sensing movement, suddenly turned and punched him in the face, sending him off to the side, his grip faltering. The guard lunged forwards with his fists, grunting as he tried to throw another punch to his face; Athos threw down the blade, raising his own arms to defend himself- hand to hand combat it would be, then.

He threw himself forwards towards the guard, grunting with the exertion as he punched the man in the face before using his weight to move them both backwards; twisting his body, Athos was able to throw the man over his shoulder and onto the dusty floor.

The guard landed with a pained yelp, but he was soon up again, yelling wildly as he lunged towards Athos again. Shaking his head Athos dodged to the left and grasped the man in the shoulders, throwing him back to the floor with a winded cry. Taking out the small knife in his pocket he knelt and pressed the blade to the fat of the man’s neck.

‘Where is he?’ he asked, voice dark.

The man opened his mouth to sneer an answer out, but, as four more shadows fell over his face, he closed it again, peering up snidely as the others looked down at him, faces hard and set.

‘Upstairs. The top office.’ He gulped, eyes showing a flicker of fear as Athos pressed the knife tighter against his skin.

‘Thank you.’ Porthos muttered sardonically, before kneeling down and punching the man in the head, rendering him unconscious.

‘So, what’s the plan?’ Aramis asked as he helped Porthos drag the man to the other side of the corridor, where he wouldn’t get tripped over. ‘Ankara ’02?’

Athos shook his head as he stood up, trying to stop his legs from shaking as he did so. ‘Roosebeke ’82- d’Artagnan is with me.’

d’Artagnan looked across at him, confused. ‘What happened in Roosebeke in 1582?’

‘1382.’ Athos allowed himself a small grin as he watched the Gascon’s mouth fall open in surprise. ‘You’ll see- come on.’

As they started striding down the corridor, Athos motioned for Porthos and Aramis to go down a lower corridor, an understanding passing between them as if they were a well-oiled machine which, d’Artagnan had to keep reminding himself, they were.

‘Wait for my signal before you go in.’ Marsac called back, nodding as Aramis held up a fist to show he understood.

‘Is this going to be like the last signal?’ d’Artagnan muttered as he almost had to run to keep up with Marsac and Athos, who climbed their way up the steep stone steps to the upper floors of the Bastille. Athos snorted and shrugged, the noise echoing in the stairway. ‘Go big or go home.’ He called back, making d’Artagnan smile as he followed close behind.

* * *

Rochefort peered across the vista of Paris life from his window, swallowing down the modicum of nerves that had settled in his chest as he watched the world go by- Keane and the others had been a very long time now, and the crashes, bangs and strangles cried he had been hearing from the bowels of the building did not herald good results. His eyes flicked to the escape corridor, hidden by a false bookshelf in the corner of the room; he itched to use it, but knew he had to get the job done first.

He clasped his wine goblet close to his chest as he continued to look out of the window- it was better than pacing the floor, something he had always found weak in others. He turned as the door opened and Keane, flanked by a flurry of other men, stepped through.

He had blood on his knuckles and a bruise blooming on his cheek, but overall he was uninjured, something that Rochefort took great comfort in as he crossed the room back to his chair; that meant that the other guys came off much, much worse.

‘How many did you manage to subdue and have in custody?’ he asked pointedly, the beginnings of a confident smile on his lips. This died on his face as Keane looked over at him, eyes flashing.

He sighed irritably, but before he could say anything else Keane was speaking. ‘We hold from here. Dig in, Sir.’ He ordered, before looking to his men. ‘Get into position!’

* * *

Further up the corridor, Marsac split off down another hallway, leaving Athos and d’Artagnan to make the last steep ascent to the top offices of the prison.

d’Artagnan wrinkled his nose as he saw the bodies of the slain guards piled in a corner from where they had been dragged by their comrades- as flash of silver caught his eyes.

Athos sank to his haunches as pain overtook him once more; pressing a hand to his side he withdrew it to see scarlet on his palm; his wound needed looking at properly, and soon.

‘Here- put this on.’ He turned as d’Artagnan handed him a chest plate, the armour glinting in the candlelight of the corridor.

Athos gave him a small, sad smile, before shaking his head and let the armour drop to the floor with a clang. ‘I’m alright, lad.’

‘You need to put on the armour!’

‘Like Aramis said- if its my time, its my time.’ Athos shrugged as he turned back to look up at the door Rochefort was currently cowering behind.

‘Alright.’ d’Artagnan didn’t like the idea, but he couldn’t force Athos wear it. ‘Stay close to me, then. I’ll protect you- I’ll go through first.’

Athos looked back to him, shaking his head. ‘I go first. I always go first.’

‘Then put on the damned armour!’

Athos snorted- this kid had guts. ‘Look- if this doesn’t work out…next time, you go first.’

This time it was d’Artagnan’s turn to snort; now out of retorts, both men looked over to the door- seconds later Marsac joined them once more, a bundle in his arms that he placed carefully at the door, working fast so they didn’t miss the signal.

* * *

On the other side of the door, Keane was getting antsy waiting for the inevitable. ‘What the hell are they waiting for?’ he whispered- his men had their muskets primed and ready, and he himself held his revolver in front of him, ready to take the shot, but all that could be heard was silence.

Suddenly, there was a smashing of glass and the sound of gunfire from the windows next to Rochefort’s desk- Porthos had smashed through the window from above, expertly rolling on the stone floor before standing up, brandishing two guns as he fired into the room as the guards struggled to adjust.

Seconds later there was another almighty bang- Keane turned, covering his face, as the door exploded outwards towards him; three shadows filled the doorway, gunshots deafening as they rang through the room.

Keane raised his gun to let off the first shot, but before he could so a large hand clasped his forearm and turned him bodily around with an angry yell; Porthos didn’t give the man time to react before, using the heel of his hand, he punched him in the side of the head, sending him to the side.

Gathering himself slightly, Keane stood up and returned the blow, but Porthos was too fast- moving aside he punched him again, feeling his nose break under his knuckled as he skittered backwards, dazed.

The two parried as if they were the only men in the room- to Porthos, Keane was the only one he wanted to fight. Another punch from Keane, another dodge from Porthos, until, finally tiring, Porthos growled darkly in his throat as threw himself forwards, catching Keane around his neck and pulling him so their faces were almost touching.

‘You shot Aramis.’ He stated, voice full of anger as he looked Keane square in the eyes. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

Before Keane could retort Porthos used the last of his strength to twist on his heels and haul him over his shoulder, slamming him head first into the stone floor; the echoing noise of his neck breaking satiated Porthos for but a moment as he remained on the floor, breathing heavily.

On the other side of the room the others were making good headway- ‘Where’s Rochefort?’ d’Artagnan growled as he saw off an attack by another guard.

Looking around, Athos groaned out in pain as he dispatched another man- soon the floor was littered with the dead, but Rochefort was nowhere to be seen.

‘Here!’ they all turned at Aramis’ voice- he was pointing at a bookcase that had opened up into a escape route. ‘He’s going back downstairs!’ he yelled, eyes wide.

‘Go, go after him!’ Athos ordered, voice cracking a little as he pressed a hand to his side.

‘I’ll stay with him,’ d’Artagnan added as Porthos and Aramis looked over with concerned eyes as their leader and friend closed his eyes and hissed out a long, pained breath.

‘Go!’ Athos nodded, voice softer now. ‘I’ll be alright- go get him.’

Nodding, Porthos, Aramis and Marsac picked up more guns and raced down the corridor, hoping to catch Rochefort as he made his escape.

As silence descended in the large room, Athos finally let his gun drop to the floor as he moved to the large floor to ceiling windows, resting his head on the frame as pain overtook him again.

d’Artagnan turned to him as he picked up some more ammunition to stow in his pockets. ‘You alright?’ he asked, eyes narrowed with worry. ‘Athos?’

‘I’m fine…’ Athos muttered after a while, not taking his head off the window frame as he watched Paris writhe underneath him like a great beast. ‘It just hurts.’

He scoffed lightly as he finally turned back to the younger man, eyes creased. ‘Actually, everything hurts.’

d’Artagnan nodded at the words, ‘Well, wait until tomorrow.’

They both laughed, the noise oddly refreshing to Athos now all the yelling and screaming had stopped. ‘Can’t wait.’ He replied, shaking his head. They stood together in silence for a while, before Athos turned to d’Artagnan once more.

‘You know, I think you showed up just when I lost my immortality.’ He started, voice strained with pain. ‘So I could see what it was like. So I could remember.’

‘Remember?’

‘Remember what it…’ Athos closed his eyes and sighed. ‘What it felt like to feel unbreakable. Remarkable.’ He knew his eyes were glassy by the way his eyes stung, but now he didn’t care. Now he understood. ‘You reminded me that there are people still worth fighting for.’ He sighed as he brushed away the tears with the back of his hand, his hands blood-stained and shaking.

‘I know how I want to spend the time I’ve got left.’

d’Artagnan looked over at him, aghast. ‘You’re going to spend it with us, Athos.’

Looking up, Athos was just about to reply when they heard a noise from behind them- ‘You selfish bastard!’ Rochefort cried, eyes now manic as crossed the corridor, a revolver aimed squarely at Athos- he shook his head as d’Artagnan made to move.

‘I will kill him!’ he warned, shaking the gun in Athos’ direction. ‘Think of all the good we could do!’ he yelled over at Athos. ‘Don’t you see what we could do here?’

d’Artagnan, his gun now raised at Rochefort, looked over to Athos with scared eyes- this could be it. How could they be so stupid as not to check the room for anyone else?

‘Hey, d’Artagnan.’ Athos muttered, not taking his eyes from Rochefort. ‘Do you think he speaks any Slavic?’

A few seconds passed as d’Artagnan, confused, tried to understand what he meant- suddenly it clicked into place. Turning on his heel he turned the gun on Athos and fired, the bullet missing him by an inch; in surprise Rochefort too fired, the bullet catching d’Artagnan in the shoulder as he ran at the Comte.

Twisting himself, Athos picked up a blade and threw it as hard as he could at Rochefort; it embedded in his neck, causing him to cry out in pain before d’Artagnan rushed at him, enveloping him in his arms before moving backwards and throwing them both out of the glass window, sending glass everywhere as they tumbled down and down through the sky.

Suddenly the ground rose to meet them and they both slammed into a wooden cart, killing them both instantly in a mess of twisted bones and splintered wood.

Athos limped to the window, peering down at the carnage in the courtyard as the dust settled. ‘Play dead, bastard.’ He whispered to himself, before wiping his face and moving to go downstairs.

* * *

Porthos, Aramis and Marsac rushed to the Gascon’s side as fast as they could- they peered into the shattered remains of the cart, eyes wide with concern as d’Artagnan lay there, mangled and twisted on top of Rochefort.

‘d’Artagnan?’ Aramis called, putting a hand on his broken knee. ‘Hey, wake up.’

Seconds later, relief flooded through all of them as d’Artagnan began to groan, his body snapping back into place as he lay there.

‘Its alright, we’ll get you out.’ Aramis assured him as he and Marsac began to pull apart the splintered wood to allow d’Artagnan to move.

Porthos peered up at the broken window, high up in the building. ‘Faster than the stairs.’ He mused, more to himself to anyone, before they all looked as Athos burst through a door, shielding his eyes against the sun.

‘We need to go.’ He muttered, conscious that people had started to come out of the buildings- they couldn’t be seen here. They needed to move, and fast.

‘Come on, lad…’ Aramis smiled kindly as he helped d’Artagnan through the wreckage and onto the road. ‘You did well.’ He smiled, before enveloping him in a quick embrace before they made their way out of the Bastille and into the streets of Paris.


	14. Chapter 14

The Paris streets were quiet as Athos made his way through the cobbles, eyes peeled for a certain house. He hadn’t been in the best of health when he had been there last, so he hoped he could remember the route. He adjusted the hold of the basket in his hands, the muscles in his arms tremoring slightly as he did so.

It had been three days since their experience with Rochefort, and he was still recovering- he had received surgery from a physician Aramis and Porthos had sourced, and for now his wound was clean and he had been assured by the good doctor that he would be his old self in now time. Athos didn’t have the heart to tell him how wrong he was.

As he crossed the road he spied a familiar row of houses, and knew he was on the right track. He had left the others in the safe house- he hated being cooped up; he had to do something in the long nights as they lay low, unwilling to break their cover now most of Paris were searching for them.

He sighed as he climbed a small row of steps to the house- he hoped he had found the right one. Rapping lightly on the door, he stepped back, enjoying the coolness of the night against his skin, something he had rather been taking for granted all these years.

The door opened and a figure stepped out, her eyes quizzical in the evening light. ‘Constance,’ he smiled, nodding at the woman as she pulled the door closed, a smile dawning on her features.

‘Athos!’ she smiled, looking over at him. ‘How wonderful to see you again! How are you?’

‘I’m…doing alright…’ Athos nodded, swallowing.

‘That’s wonderful to hear- would you like to come in?’

‘No, no, it’s fine….’ Athos shook his head and handed her the basket. ‘For you. For your help the other night. You will never know how much you helped me.’

‘Oh, Athos! You shouldn’t have!’ Constance berated him lightly, peering into the basket at the selection of wine, breads and pastries. ‘This must have cost a fortune, I-‘

‘I brought it for you, so please take it and enjoy it. You deserve it all and more.’

Constance smiled bashfully over at him, eyes narrowed playfully as she accepted her gift. ‘I’m glad you’re on the mend.’

‘Yes,’ Athos nodded with a wry smile. ‘I found I wasn’t….quite so indestructible as I once thought I was.’

‘Men always say that!’ Constance laughed, the noise filling Athos’ heart.

‘I know we do, but- this time I need to face that I may not be as strong as I thought.’ He swallowed again, faltering ling enough for Constance to look over at him with concerned eyes.

‘Are you alright?’

He looked at her, at her beauty, her youthfulness, and felt a pang of envy. Covering his feelings with a smile he nodded, before stepping closer and closing the gap between them.

‘I must go- thank you, Constance. For everything.’ He said, before slowly moving forwards and placing a kiss on her cheek.

Without another word he withdrew and walked off, leaving Constance at her front door, staring after the stranger disappearing off into the night.

* * *

The brackish water of the Seine rose and ebbed its way along the riverbank; the early morning sunlight glinted in its surface, almost blinding Marsac as he stared into the water, awaiting his fate.

The others had been discussing his punishment for an hour now, and he was starting to worry- he swallowed hard as an icy wind brushed against his face. Guilt rose up in his chest like a springtide and his stomach roiled as he watched birds flock onto the wall to his left. He hadn’t meant for it to be like this, to end like this.

He turned as he heard footsteps come closer. d’Artagnan nodded at him as he came to stand next to him. The two men stood in silence for a while, staring ahead at the river.

‘Why?’ Marsac almost startled at the sudden question, the words hitting him like a gunshot.

He let the question hang in the air, not knowing how to respond for a few moments. ‘I…had three sons.’ He started, staring resolutely ahead, unwilling to meet d’Artagnan’s eye.

‘The youngest one, JeanPierre…he was the last to die. He was forty two.’ He sucked in a breath, feeling his eyes prick with tears. ‘Cancer took him.’

Wiping his eyes, he continued, this time turning to look at the other man. ‘You’ll always and forever be the young man right here- but everyone around you, everything you love….they’re going to grow old, they’re going to suffer, and they’re going to die.’

He shook his head, thumbing away a tear as d’Artagnan looked on, face laced with concern and pity. ‘And if you try to…to touch their lives, to be present in their lives….well- they’ll learn your secret eventually. They will beg you to share it with them, and you won’t be able to-‘ he let out a wet, mirthless chuckle as he shook his head again.

‘They won’t believe you, of course. They’ll think you want it all for yourself. They’ll tell you…that you don’t love them. That your love towards them is weak, or selfish. You’ll never forget the…the hate, and despair in their eyes.’

Finally his eyes met d’Artagnan’s, although he could hardly see him from the tears in his own. ‘And you will know what it is to lose everyone you’ve ever loved.’

The two men stared at each other- d’Artagnan didn’t know what to say. He nodded slowly, showing his understandings. Marsac didn’t do what he did through hate. It was the opposite.

‘You’re a good man, d’Artagnan.’ Marsac finally spoke, clearing his throat. ‘You’ll be great for the team.’

They all looked up as they heard footsteps approaching- he looked at Athos as he, flanked by Aramis and Porthos, stopped ahead of him. Aramis nodded across at him, yet Porthos regarded him with suspicion, almost hatred in his eyes. Marsac knew what had happened to Aramis back in the Bastille had scarred them both, and didn’t blame Porthos for being so unforgiving.

They stopped and looked at each other, as Paris began to wake up around them. ‘There’s got to be a price.’ Athos said, voice stark against the cold wind.

Marsac nodded, now resigned to his fate. Athos looked across the river to the other side, before turning back to Marsac. ‘One hundred years from today, they’ll meet you here. Till then, you’re alone.’

Marsac swallowed, yet nodded his understanding- they stood for a few seconds, before Aramis put a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder and he and Porthos led him away, leaving just Athos and Marsac alone.

‘I hoped for less, but I expected more…’ he said, looking at the retreating backs of his teammates, of his family, and missing them already.

Athos nodded, before sighing. He turned back to Marsac, at the man he trusted with his life for so many years. ‘I’m going to miss you.’ He said, voice low. Marsac looked over at him, eyes stinging once more- he stepped forwards and the two men embraced, resting their chins on each other’s shoulders as a silent understanding passed between them. This was it.

Stepping back, Athos palmed away his tears, sighing deeply. Marsac nodded, swallowing hard, before a crushing thought crossed his mind.

‘I- I won’t see you again.’ His voice faltered. This would be the last time he saw Athos alive, now his immortality was gone.

Athos chuckled at his words, before shrugging. ‘Have a little faith, Marsac.’ He nodded, before turning and walking away, leaving Marsac to only watch as he joined the others at the bank.

He caught Porthos’ eye as he did so- it took a few seconds, but as Porthos welcomed Athos back with a hand on his shoulder, he swore the other man inclined his head ever so slightly before turning away, leading the others up the stone steps and onto the streets, leaving Marsac alone for the next century.


	15. Epilogue

Epilogue

**Six months later, Paris.**

The days seemed to blend into one never ending nightmare now- Marsac spent most of his time drinking, gambling and sleeping.

Sleep did not come easy to him, but the wine helped. The accrued money helped fund his wine now he was cut off from his usual source of money- and drink wine he did. Most of his time was spent staring at the bottom of a wine bottle, and Marsac was past caring as he spent his time in a cycle of hangovers and withering depression.

He changed rooms often, not wanting to be tied down to one location in case any of Rochefort’s cronies came after him- Athos had warned him to leave Paris, yet he had lived here all his life. It was were his heritage was. He couldn’t lose everything that made him human.

He stumbled up the steps of his latest accommodation, a dank room rented from a dubious fellow that smelt of meat and had yellowing teeth. It was hardly furnished save for a bed and a table, but it was what he was going to call home for the next two weeks nevertheless.

He swore loudly into the night as he tripped and the half-empty wine bottle in his hand slipped from his grasp, shattering on the floor. Kicking the shards away angrily, he was glad of the extra bottles tucked under his pillows.

As he crossed the hallway to his rooms he swallowed hard- it had only been six months yet he felt it had already been decades. He did not do well on his own, he never had. Now he had no choice. He reached into his pocket for the key before stopping short, dread filling him. His door was ajar.

‘Hello?’ he called, pulling out the revolver in his pocket and aiming it into the darkness. He stepped closer, moving his inner door open with his foot before stepping inside and nearly dropping his gun completely.

In the light of the only candle in the room, bathed in moonlight, a woman was stood by the window. She smiled over at him, her long, slender fingers reaching down onto his table and pulling a dark, wide ribbon up off its surface.

She didn’t take her eyes off him as she raised her arms, shaking her long dark hair over her shoulders before she tied the ribbon round her neck- as she did so Marsac caught a glimpse of an angry, purple scar snaking its way like a rope. Like a noose.

‘Ah, Marsac…’ Milady smiled as she adjusted her hair, her voice demure and silky.

‘How nice to finally meet you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> As the film finished on a cliffhanger I am sure there will be second film- when/if it does I am sure I will be back to add to this. Meanwhile my brain is already conjuring up little oneshots and other fics for this universe, so please keep your eyes peeled!
> 
> I'd also like to thank those of you who read this fandom-blind to The Old Guard- you guys are wonderful!
> 
> Thank you again for reading- Please can I ask that you leave a small comment on this chapter, I'd really love to hear them as this is my first crossover ever, and I really appreciated any feedback, good or bad!
> 
> Until next time....


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